


In a dream you saw a way to survive and you were full of joy

by Tyranno



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Ableism, Angst, Cancer, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, Lynch Family (Raven Cycle), M/M, Medical Conditions, Niall Lynch is a terrible father, POV Declan Lynch, Ronan Lynch is Bad at Feelings, Ronan Lynch redemption arc, medical drama, that tag is half a joke half what actually happens, the pynch is there but background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: In the third week of June, Niall Lynch is murdered and Aurora Lynch passes away.In the first week of July, Declan Lynch begins to die.*Or: I Brought My Small Family Together And All It Took Was One Terminal Diagnosis
Relationships: Declan Lynch & Matthew Lynch & Ronan Lynch, Declan Lynch & Ronan Lynch, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 60
Kudos: 152





	1. Your Own Private Chernobyl

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Jenny Holzer piece 
> 
> two warnings 
> 
> the first is that I fucked the canon timeline up. you're just going to have to go with it, sorry, I made wayy too many mistakes to piece it back together again
> 
> the second is that this is a medical drama so if you are squicked out over medical drama (surgery, descriptions of tumours) things please don't read . also this fic is less happy than the description makes it sound :(
> 
> the good news is I've already finished this fic, so it will be completed in due time :)
> 
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> 𓅓𓅓𓅓

The last conversation Declan Lynch had with his mother was after dinner, while she prepared his medicine.

It had been a long time since Declan had someone else inject him. Since he was young, it had always been something he had done himself after brushing his teeth. He’d do it in bed with a book propped up on his knees or during an episode of some show he was watching. By then, he could do it automatically, fitting a clean needle to the body of the syringe, pulling out the dose of liquid, pressing the tip into his arm and pushing down the plunger with the base of his hand. Afterwards, everything went into the sharps bin he kept on his bedside table.

“We should ask Niall to make more of this,” Aurora said, breaking the seal on the new needle blade and attaching it, “You’re almost out.”

Declan glanced over the set of small vials, the pristine glass gleaming, “I have enough.”

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Aurora replied.

Later, he would try to remember why Aurora had insisted she do it for him, that night. Had she known, somehow? Had she had a sense, enough to worry her but not enough to say anything? She pulled out the clear liquid into the syringe and held it up to the light.

“Sometimes,” Aurora said, lowering the needle, “I think… we should tell your brothers.”

“Dad doesn’t want us to,” Declan said. He always did that, if he could—neither agreed nor disagreed. Niall thought it would distract his younger brothers from their studies, and Declan could see the logic. There was no point worrying them unnecessarily.

Aurora watched him for a moment, before she pushed the needle into his arm.

Declan was not his parent’s favourite. But he thought, sometimes, that him and his mother shared a certain strange bond. Declan needed medicine only Niall could provide. While Matthew and Ronan would one day leave the nest and fly away, but him and Aurora were stuck in Niall’s orbit.

That was unfair, Declan knew. _You are angry at him for dying_ , his therapist said when he told her a version of the feeling, _that is normal and natural. You are angry at being left behind. But this feeling is not sustainable._

A bead of blood welled up where the needle track had been. Aurora kissed her fingers and pressed them gently to the small hole. Kissed it better. Declan smiled at her and she left his bedroom.

That night, Declan slept well, until he was woken up in the early hours of the morning by Ronan’s screaming. Then his life took an abrupt nosedive.

*

Many rituals were disrupted after the funeral.

Niall Lynch’s will went into full affect immediately, like a trap snapping shut, and Declan’s mind was filled with buying clothes to replace the ones left at the Barns, shepherding Matthew around, cajoling Ronan into leaving his bed. There were deeds to look over, lawyers to talk to, relatives to turn away and school officials to flatter. He was so busy that he forgot to brush his teeth and wash his clothes some nights, so of course he forgot his medication, still tucked away in a side draw at his exiled home.

Declan was half convinced he didn’t need it. He never felt any pain. Perhaps Niall had just liked the control, perhaps Aurora had one of those television disorders where she needed Declan to be sick. Perhaps, after all this time, his body had acclimatised to the medicine and could manage without it.

Then, running track a few days after the funeral, Declan’s body stopped working.

It happened between strides, his body jolting mid-air, so that his foot doesn’t come up to carry him. His momentum carried him forward as his joints freeze and he collided with the ground like he was hit in the back of the head with a baseball bat.

Declan got a face full of mud and a sprained wrist, his knees jolted painfully, and the wind knocked out of his chest. But it was surprise more than anything, which dazed him.

Matthew and Ronan were still young. They didn’t have a body like Declan’s, if his younger brothers wanted something from their body, they could get it. They could count on their legs to walk themselves home if they missed the bus, they could sprint faster if they needed, they could focus on the ball in tennis and wouldn’t even think about their knees. But Declan’s body betrayed him. It undercut him, like a faulty wire, and left him sprawling and embarrassed.

When the gym teacher ran up to ask him questions, Declan told him he’d sprained his ankle and the teacher was all too willing to let him limp, muddy and confused, to the nurse’s office. He sat on the patient bed, his sneakers leaving light streaks on the plastic flooring, for a long time.

After school, he phoned his then-girlfriend Allison.

Allison visited his dorm the next morning. She was a good girlfriend, strong-willed, if a little indifferent to him. Declan had been meaning to break it off with her for a while, but after the funeral he felt that he had to extend it to avoid her feeling awkward. Now he was glad he had—her father was a detective and she had a knack for finding this Declan hadn’t even known he was missing, she was forever tucking car keys and wallets back into Declan’s jacket pockets after he left them on diner booths and worktops.

Delicately, Allison set the white cardboard box on Declan’s bedside table and opened it so he could see.

Declan cleared his throat, “Did you check—”

“Everywhere,” Allison said. She ran her hand through her over-bleached white hair, “Every bathroom, every nook and cranny. You said your dad’s an inventor—he’s invented a lot of weird crap, Dec. But these were the only ones I could find matching the description.”

Declan picked up the box and watched the light gleam off the perfect, identical glass cases. Every one was about the height of his thumb and the glass was thick around the single doses. Sixteen. Declan was looking at sixteen doses of medicine, which if he took it properly, would supposedly give him a little over two weeks to live.

“Thank you,” Declan said, setting the box back down.

Allison raised her eyebrows just slightly. She didn’t ask. That was another thing Declan liked about her: she didn’t ask. A lack of curiosity was such a relief that Declan would consider it a saintly blessing. He would find a way to break up with her gently.

*

Declan doesn’t give himself a dose.

Instead, he withdraws from track and tennis club. Nobody seems to mind. He’s a senior now, on the fast track to exams, and many of his classmates do the same thing. When one of the teachers asks if he wants to move up to a single dorm room, he accepts. It will be a shame not to room with Matthew anymore, he enjoyed that closeness, but he needs his space. If what he thinks is about to happen—happens… he’ll need space.

The first betrayal is his left wrist.

Sometime in the week after he first fell in track, his wrist started to feel strange, until one morning he moves his thumb over it and can’t find his pulse. Instead, there is a lump that feels as hard as granite under his skin. It is fairly obvious and looks a little like the retina-shaped yolk in a sunny-side up fried egg.

The school nurse looks over it, touching his skin with hard fingers.

“We’ll have to take a sample,” The nurse says, “but I think it’s a benign sarcoma. These kinds of cancers are most common in young people, because your system is still good at detecting most cancer errors so the only ones that escape are the really aggressive ones.”

Declan rolls the tumour under his fingers, but it doesn’t move much. It isn’t painful, but he can’t fit his watch over it anymore, so he switches it to the other hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” Declan says, keeping his voice light, “You said it’s benign, right? I’ll bring it up with my personal doctor at the weekend.”

The nurse chews at her cheek, “Well… I suppose it will save us the lab work. Besides, since it’s on your dominant wrist—we won’t be operating on it until after finals anyway. It’ll be impossible to work properly with an open wound on your writing hand.”

“Right,” Declan smiled at her.

“Still, you should definitely see your personal doctor,” The nurse said, “you need to keep an eye on these things.”

“I promise,” Declan said, “I am keeping an eye on it.”

*

Declan’s wrist grows worse.

He had, like Niall, always been a southpaw. But now his left fist was weak and strange, like a rusty mechanism, and took a while to curl when he wanted it. When he hits the punching back, the fist falls apart.

So he switches. He hits with his right, trying to relearn how to move his feet to get the momentum behind it. Declan tries to imagine what Niall would say, how he would adjust Declan’s stance and critique his movement. Wrong, Niall would have said, Weak, slow. If this was a real fight, Niall’s voice said, you would be dead.

Ronan doesn’t seem to notice his change, or that he’s suddenly far better at winning. Ronan does not notice much when he is angry, and that is almost a comfort. It is far more difficult to hide from Matthew, who starts shooting Declan distressed looks that Declan does not return.

Writing is hardest. Declan writes like a crab, his right hand like a hook around the pen. Ink gets everywhere. It’s a constant effort to keep his writing legible. Twice, he runs out of time before the English lesson is over, and he’s only scratched out two paragraphs instead of the seven he usually reels off.

He fails his midterms.

During the exam, his left hand had become a block of meat and his right had cramped into an unusable claw. Declan had tried to force it to scratch out more words, but it reached a point where he felt like the was moving raw nerves, his muscles burning. After days and days of back-to-back exams, his hands are shaking and painful.

“I’m sorry,” his math, English, physics, chemistry, history and biology teachers all say, “but there’s nothing I can do, if the work’s not on the paper then I can’t give you the grade.”

Declan listened to the well-meaning lectures about revision and juggling time and moving on from his father’s death through work, and he thought about the Ernest Hemmingway story Aurora had read to him, years ago. Old man and the sea. He remembered the way the main character’s hands had frozen up and cramped into talons when the fishing line sliced them, and he had had to wait hours for them to unfreeze and come back to him. Declan’s hands are like that. Except he has no big fucking fish to show for it.

*

The morning after the exam results, Declan is leaning into the mirror in his empty dorm room and watching his eyes. Under his right eye, there is a pale brown splotch, like a coffee-stain. It has speckles of darker parts.

Melanoma.

Declan has had it before. He ran a finger over it, like he might just brush it away.

The term “Melanoma” comes from the Greek “melan” which meant black, and “-oma” the suffix denoting an abnormal growth. A serious cancer, and because it came out sounding like “mellow”, it was often referred to as “malignant Melanoma”. It was a beautiful word for a terrible thing and came out when he spoke it like the first cord of a song.

Declan breaks open the foundation which is sitting abandoned on his bathroom mirror. Girls tended to shed things; earrings, makeup, pocket mirrors, which after breaking up with them Declan had to dutifully collect and hide before the next girl came along.

“Cancers are strange,” Ashley one had said, “You know you’re allowed to tell your insurance company to hide letters which mention cancer from your partner? It’s, like, the only disease you’re allowed to do that for. It’s a secret.”

“Cancer…” Ashley two had said, “I hear that’s caused by repressed thoughts. Like if you’re secretly gay or something.”

Declan had not told Ashley three.

He was glad he was dating a girl who had a similar skin tone to him. He spread the foundation over his melanoma and wiped it away. With a few dabs he covered it completely, leaving only a slightly strange texture over the damaged skin.

*

The way the story goes when Aurora tells him is like this.

Declan was born as curled up as a broad bean, and early too, shuttled to the intensive care unit. His arms were drawn up and his legs always folded. Impossibly, there was already a melanoma over one eye. “Like you were half-racoon,” Aurora said, and she had a way of making horrible things sound like compliments.

Niall had been away when Aurora had given birth. Even with all her calling, it took him another week to come back. By then, Declan was on all kinds of life support, and the nurses were running out of places on his small, battered body to put needles.

Like a magician, Niall had pulled out the vials from thin air and injected them into his son while Aurora distracted the nurses. Eventually, Declan’s body gave in, the tumours shrinking and receding, drawing back to hide like under-bed monsters in the cells of Declan’s small body.

Every night, he needed new doses, or he started to show symptoms. Declan seemed to have it all, in his feet, hands, face, neck, lungs, stomach, liver. Everything was a potential threat. His body was a valley of death, enemies on all fronts. He asked his father why that was, but was only brushed off, so he asked his mother.

“Oh honey,” Aurora had said, brushing a crisp golden curl from her shoulder, “You’re just dreadfully unlucky. Always have been.”

*

Declan dreams of Chernobyl.

In his mind, he is struck by fear, his feet half-buried in rubble. Everything burned. Ash is thick on his skin, plastered to him by his sweat. Screams are drowned out by the roar of fire; the smoke is as thick as cotton in the sky.

Pain is like a wave over him. He couldn’t shake it off. Every part of him is breaking and mutating, bones snapping and reforming, everything that made him who he is changing, changing. He is an alien now, his own body foreign to itself. Declan didn’t see his own hands before him, his own knees. He is someone else. Something raw and painful, his whole body an open wound.

As he struggles, wave after wave of invisible radiation washes over him. Before his very eyes, his body sways and changes, his skin reddening and breaking, his fingers splitting, his palms peeling away. Tumours bubble and sprout over every inch of him, pushing up from his bones, pushing up from his fat and flesh.

His hand, his left hand, his left wrist—God, it hurts so much—God it’s like it’s trapped between rocks—If he didn’t know better—

Declan woke up and his left hand is in a permanent clench.

Fear lances through his chest and he rolled out of bed, smashing the light switch on. The hand is pale and grey, the nails are tinged with blue. It’s dying. He’ll lose the whole hand.

Declan scrambles for the box of medicine and uses his good hand and his teeth to put the syringe together. His numb left hand is cradled to his chest.

The needle plunges into the middle of the sarcoma and Declan forces the medicine in. It didn’t do anything for a long moment, and panic is still gripping him like a vice, so he pulls out another dose and puts that in too.

As feeling returns, finally, to his left hand, Declan is angry at himself. Two doses? It was probably just taking a while to start working. Now he just threw away an entire day’s worth of medicine over a little discomfort. His left hand is viciously painful, like it’s angry at him, as the sarcoma shrinks very slowly and allows blood back in.

Declan is unspeakably angry.

He throws on his jacket and shoves his feet into shoes. By the time he reaches his car, the sarcoma is a light bump on his wrist, barely bigger than a scab, but that does nothing to quell his ire. He slams the car door behind him and drives off so fast the car lurches and squeals around him.

Declan doesn’t even know he’s driving to Cabeswater before he sees it rear up in front of him, full and mockingly lush. He barely remembers to park before he stumbles out, drunk on anger.

It’s a cold night. Icy air hits him the moment he emerged, shocking and abrasive. He gasps on it.

“Well, here I am!” Declan screams, “Come and fucking get me!”

The forest says nothing. It never whispers to him, like an adoring mother. It never speaks. The wind murmured through the trees, scattering dark leaves. The night is very, very black.

“You want me? This is all a fucking Dream thing, isn’t it?!” Declan staggers towards the treeline, “You want me dead—come, here I am! Come get me!”

Cabeswater is silent. It’s like the forest turned away from him, disgusted by the naked emotion on his face. Declan is ugly with pain.

He collapses. His knees hit the earth and he punched it, once, twice. His left is still weak, and the fist opens when he strikes but he still hits it. His right hits a root and the knuckles split.

It was a Dream thing, because of course it was a Dream thing. Declan’s life is always being fucked over by Dream things. Niall pulled him out wrong and instead of admitting his mistake, he kept stringing Declan along and along. And now Cabeswater was angry, angry because they wanted Declan when he was small and sweet, but they couldn’t have him.

Here was Cabeswater’s revenge—they would take him when he was older. They would take him after he had learned to live pain-free and careless. They would take him right when he was needed by his brothers, right when it would destroy them for Declan to die. And they would take him slowly. And so, despite Matthew, despite Aurora, despite every beautiful and magical thing that was taken from the ley line, Declan cannot help but think of it as evil.

Declan wants to cry, but he is too angry. He curled his fingers into the dark grass and heaved, shoulders shuddering, his body mourning for tears which won’t come.


	2. Bargaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers in endnotes

Ronan punched him.

This shouldn’t have been a surprise—but it was, because Declan didn’t see the wind-up or the swing, didn’t know it was coming until his skull shook with the impact. Ronan was fast, but not that fast.

Gansey caught Ronan by the elbows and pulled him backwards. Ronan shook him off, snapped at him and Gansey snapped back. They were all outside Aglionby, with teachers watching from the side lines. Ronan roared like a wild thing.

Declan stared ahead, a horrible feeling in him. He kept his eyes still and watched his hand as he lifted two fingers and moved a short orbit around him. Just as it reached his right side, it winked out. He should have been able to see it, but he couldn’t. Blindspot.

His eye. The eye that Ronan had hit—it was dying, the melanoma spread to his retina. God. More than the smarting punch, he hurt. When had it happened? That morning? Last night? Declan was losing parts of himself without even noticing. Declan repeated the gesture, keeping his eyes sill and watching his fingers move out of frame. Every time it disappeared; his grimace deepened.

Adam Parrish watched him; attention drawn from Ronan. He didn’t understand what Declan was doing, but for some reason it made his heart hurt. He looked so lost.

*

Kavinsky’s phone lit up.

He fished it out from his bomber jacket, using the other hand to relight his cigarette. He was a dutiful businessman—he could not ignore customers when they ring a bell. Unknown numbers were not unusual, so he simply clicked answer and put it to his ear.

“What?” Kavinsky asked.

“ _Hello_ ,” a stiff voice answered on the other end, “ _I am Declan Lynch._ ”

Kavinsky leaned forward, taking a puff from his cigarette, “Fuck. I thought he was dead?”

There was a short silence on the other line.

“ _That was Niall Lynch. I’m Declan, Ronan’s older brother?”_

“Right you are,” Kavinsky relaxed, “What can I do for you, Mister Lynch?”

“ _I require your services. Could we meet, perhaps? My dorm?”_

*

Kavinsky prowled into Declan’s dorm room. He skimmed over the hanging drapes; the dark curtains drawn against the daylight. He cast a disparaging glance across the clean carpets and the spotless walls. He walked like a hunting animal; his back slightly hunched.

“Mr. Lynch,” Kavinsky said, flopping down onto the couch, “How many I be of service to you?”

“Hello, Mr. Kavinsky,” Declan said. He kept his lumpy left hand tucked into his lap, and had reapplied makeup over his melanoma, “I’m aware you deal in designer drugs?”

Kavinsky raised an eyebrow, “I do.”

“If I gave you a sample of a drug, would you be able to reproduce it?”

Eyes bright, Kavinsky leaned back. His grin was lecherous, “I would.”

“This drug,” Declan set a small vial onto the table, “is very special. It’s not something I’m able to acquire through normal means.”

“What the hell sort of whack-ass rich drug are you addicted to, Mr. Lynch?” Kavinsky snatched up the little bottle and turned it over in his long fingers. His eyes widened as he was the white label. Instead of printed instructions, the entire label was covered Declan Lynch’s name, over and over and over, like an obsessive chant.

“It’s a thing of dreams,” Declan said.

Kavinsky set it down again, “Ronan make it for you? And what, he’s cut you off over something catty?”

He knew. Declan had already suspected that Kavinsky knew, but it was still disorientating to hear him say it so plainly. Declan did not let that show.

“No,” Declan said, “Ronan can’t make it.”

“You don’t trust him?” Kavinsky clucked his teeth, “But you trust me? This shit sort your brain out, or something?”

“Something like that,” Declan grimaced, “it’s not a recreational drug, it’s something that keeps me healthy.”

Kavinsky leaned forward. Declan watched him like one might watch a barking dog. “Your dad,” Kavinsky suggested.

Declan hesitated and nodded.

“It keeps you alive,” Kavinsky smiled darkly, “and only your dad can make it. Damn, that’s pretty fucked up, I’m a little impressed. Talk about manufactured dependence.”

“It’s not like that,” Declan snapped, “Niall didn’t—it’s not something he used to control me. He wouldn’t do that.”

“You are such a lap dog,” Kavinsky purred, “You and your brother both. I bet your dad loved that, loyal little Lynch dogs. Said you were sick and only he had the cure, and like a little baying pup you kept padding back for more. You think he couldn’t Dream a permanent cure, Declan?”

“No,” Declan felt his chest burn, “He wouldn’t do that to me!”

Kavinsky watched him indulgently. His eyes were very dark and cold.

Of course, Kavinsky would think that—he was a drug dealer. He was intimately familiar with manufacturing need and dependence, creating a sickness and pricing out a cure. But Niall wasn’t like that. He wasn’t. Declan tried very hard to keep his thoughts in order, but they kept unravelling around him.

He had never seen a baby photo. Declan had not been to the hospital with his tumours since he was a baby, he had never seen more than the occasional personal physician, while Niall was in the room with him, watching everything with hawk-like intensity. It made sense, to Declan, perfect sense. One boy at hand, and one boy to carry on Niall’s legacy. One, Ronan, who would forge ahead in life and Dream and succeed, and one, Declan, to take care of him and Aurora and his estate, to manage his younger siblings and never travel far.

Declan pressed his hands into his face, “Can you reproduce it?”

Kavinsky pressed a finger to the metal lid of the vial, “For three hundred a bottle.”

Declan stared at him through his fingers. “But why so much?” Declan asked, “can’t you just Dream up the money? Why do you need mine?”

“It’s not that I need it, Mr. Lynch,” Kavinsky purred, “it’s more that I want you to lose it.”

Declan let out a shuddering sigh.

“Come on, we’re all businessmen here,” Kavinsky said, “I’m a nice guy, but I can’t gain a reputation for giving stuff away. Supply and demand, Mr. Lynch. You want something tailor made; you’re going to have to pay more.”

“Alright,” Declan said, “I suppose.”

Kavinsky leaned back, rolling the medicine bottle around his fingers. Declan pulled out his cheque book.

“I’m warning you, though, Kavinsky,” Declan said, “If you try to mess with me, I’ll have you expelled and, if I can, jailed.”

Kavinsky’s expression didn’t change—but his skin went tight, like he was wearing a mask, “Alright.”

Declan signed the cheque and passed it over. $300. It would work until he could find some other method to get better. He could buoy himself along for just a little bit longer. Kavinsky plucked the cheque from Declan’s fingers and cracked a few green pills between his teeth. He swallowed and relaxed, boneless. His eyes slid shut.

Declan watched him.

Kavinsky didn’t even seem to breathe as he slept, his body as still as a corpse. His eyes fluttered beneath his eyelids.

Then, Kavinsky surfaced with a gasp, his prize clutched in his hands. An identical little bottle, the glass bright and gleaming. Declan picked it out of his hands and sighed. He produced a clean needle.

“You’re going to try it now?” Kavinsky looked pleased.

“Might as well,” Declan pushed the needle into the bottle and drew out the dose. The liquid was slightly thicker than he was used to. When the syringe was filled to the mark, he took it out and pushed it into his skin. He could feel the cold liquid push in, his body pull it into his veins.

“I must say,” Kavinsky tilted his head, “that displays a surprising amount of trust.”

There was something about the way he said it that made Declan pause. He pulled the empty syringe out of his arm and stared down at his pale skin. A bead of blood ran down from the needle mark.

As he watched, Kavinsky pulled the cheque out of his shirt pocket and, delicately, tore it in two. He tore it again, and again, until all that remained was a pile of white paper flakes. Kavinsky brushed them onto the floor and fixed Declan with a wolfish, evil kind of smile.

“I won’t take money for something I didn’t give,” Kavinsky said, “We can trust each other that much.”

“What…” Declan’s chest was icy, “What did you give me?”

Kavinsky tilted his head, “Do you feel it yet, Mr. Lynch?”

Declan pressed his hand tightly around the needle mark, as if he could squeeze the liquid back out.

“You know, I almost agreed,” Kavinsky said, “I am a businessman, and besides, I like Ronan and your death will destroy him, utterly. He’ll be no fun completely smashed to pieces like that. That’s just counting he survives your funeral. Although I suppose I can always sink my claws into little Matty.”

Declan shrank away from him, mind blank. He could feel himself pitching toward panic, but he wasn’t quite there yet, his heart was beginning to hammer. There was hot pressure behind his eyes, like he wanted to cry.

“But you _had_ to threaten me,” Kavinsky said, “and I won’t be threatened. I’m nobody’s lapdog, Lynch, I have a little more self-respect than you do.”

“What did you do?” Declan demanded, desperately, “What did you give me?!”

Kavinsky stood up. From that angle, he blocked the light, and cast a long dark shadow over Declan, his dark hair glowing around the corners.

“It won’t kill you,” Kavinsky said, “just sit there and suffer and keep silent.”

Languidly, Kavinsky stepped over the back of the couch and slunk towards the door, his long hips sliding with every step. He didn’t look back, his shoulders low and relaxed.

“You won’t get away with this,” Declan growled, “I’ll make sure you pay.”

Kavinsky paused, his hand on the door handle, “Are you sure about that, Mr. Lynch? You want to tell the school board that you took mysterious drugs from a known dangerous addict? You want to show them your needle tracks?”

“I don’t care,” Declan gasped, “I won’t let you get away with it.”

Kavinsky straightened up. For a moment, he stood with his back to Declan, tilting his head around like he was sloshing a thought around in his head. He turned and fixed Declan with an exasperated look.

“Nobody can call foul on this one,” Kavinsky shrugged a shoulder, “You really did bring it on yourself.”

Declan watched him warily, “What do you mean?”

But Kavinsky ignored him and stalked through the dorms. He pulled books off the shelves and upturned boxes. He pulled draws out of the cabinets and opened every cupboard in the kitchen. Plates smashed on the tiled floor.

“What are you doing?” Declan asked, weakly.

Declan’s body was beginning to shut down. There was something moving in his stomach, something angry. Declan watched Kavinsky enter and leave the bathroom, tossing toothpaste and mouthwash bottles around as he searched. He felt the sickness claw at him, pull at the ring of muscles at the top of his stomach, tighten and relax in convulsions.

Kavinsky pulled the white cardboard box from where Declan had hidden it in his bedside draws. He opened it, revealing thirteen little glass bottles.

“No,” Declan begged, “No, no, please—”

Kavinsky dropped the box. His boot landed a moment later, smashing glass. He ground his black heel into the broken glass, the leather shining with wet medicine.

Declan stared at the damp cardboard box. Glass shards shone like little diamonds in the carpet and Kavinsky had chips of glass in the treads of his boots. It was like seeing his heart smashed against the carpet, the blood congealed and sticky, the hard tendons like ribs of some small animal sticking up through the meat.

“What?” Kavinsky purred, “No cute come back? Not another threat?”

Declan watched him, haunted, “You’ve killed me.”

“We’re all dying, honey,” Kavinsky said, slinking past him, “It’s just a matter of degrees.”

Declan crawled towards the smashed remains of the vials. Pain wracked his chest. The first wave of convulsions hit his belly and his diaphragm contracted so sharply it winded him. Declan vomited onto the carpet.

“Now, a bit of advice,” Kavinsky opened the door, “When you get to the rest room, make sure you don’t start to vomit into the toilet—you’ll need the seat free for your other end.” He slammed the door shut after him.

Declan finished vomiting and began to retch, empty, onto the floor. His belly churned and bubbled. He could feel his diaphragm twitching and threatening to throw him again. His bowels clenched painfully. Glass shards cut into his hands as he began to drag himself, like a wounded animal, to the bathroom.

*

Six hours later, Declan lay curled like a whipped dog on the cold tiles of the bathroom. His body was numb. All manner of terrible smells filled his nose, but Declan just breathed through his open mouth. His eyes had started to water and now his face was cold and gritty.

It took another hour for Declan to get the strength to lever himself off the cold floor. There is almost no strength left in him at all. His head was leaden and heavy. He knew he would not be able to speak if he tried, his throat burned with every breath he took.

First, he crawled to the smashed remains of the white cardboard box. Gingerly, he pulled the lid off. The cardboard had dried warped and strange. Glass clinked together.

Very, very gently, Declan plucked out the three vials which survived. The dried medicine had smeared the text on their sides. Three here, plus the one which remained untouched on Declan’s coffee table, which gave him four painless days to live or an unknown number of painful ones. Not many, if he continued like this.

Declan set the vials onto the shelf of the cabinet with shaking hands.

His left hand had seized again, and although he could move it, he couldn’t feel the glass shards which poked out of it when he pulled them out. A bad sign, but Declan was riding down a road with only bad signs in every direction. He dropped the bloody shards onto the crumpled cardboard.

Kitchen. Declan reached the kitchen half on his knees, half on his feet. His body wanted to curl up like a broad bean and it was an effort to keep himself straightened out enough to walk, crablike, to the sink.

He drank.

Water washed away the taste in his mouth a little, and Declan drank more. Blood left smears on the glass. With shaking hands, he added a little sugar and salt to the water, to restore his electrolytes like his mother had taught him. He gulped them down.

Absently, Declan lifted a hand to test his peripheral vision. Still bad. Had it been at 3’oclock yet, or only 4? Was the tumour in his eye or his brain? Declan couldn’t feel it anywhere. His eye looked no different to him, but it wouldn’t—the tumour would blossom behind his eye, over his optic nerve.

Declan sank to his knees. The shards of a broken plate gleamed on the floor. He wished, desperately, that he hadn’t moved out of the dorm he’d shared with Matthew. Matthew would have found him sick and worried, yes, but Matthew would have been there and helped him. Declan was very tired of doing everything on his own.

He pulled his phone out and called Ronan.

Declan listened to the dial tone. He didn’t expect him to pick up and Ronan didn’t. Declan sat on the cold tiles, feeling more dead than alive. He hit redial. All over him, there was a tiredness, a vacuum of energy.

As he listened to the empty line, he inspected his ankles. The ankle bone on his left leg was warped slightly, not yet enough for him to feel it, but strange looking. The bone protruded too far, a rounded knot. Declan felt insulted. You too? He wanted to snap at his ankle, you hate me too? Perhaps he was losing his mind.

Declan cancelled the call and swiped through his contacts until he landed on Matthew. He didn’t want to call. But he doubted very much that he would be able to leave the dorm alone.

“Matthew,” Declan croaked when his brother picked up. He had to stop and massage his throat, it hurt even more than he had expected, and his speech came out strange and warped, “I need… I need you to take me to the hospital.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x  
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> tw: non-consensual drug use, ableism, vomiting, sickness, graphic depiction of violence.


	3. Rain in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't think there are any specific triggers for this chapter. if the other chapters were fine this one will be too afaik . It's just really sad... but you knew that already :p
> 
> FYI if any of you have read my profile, the impending thermite-ing of my computer won't happen until this fic is finished. If you haven't read it dont worry about it
> 
> x  
> x  
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> 
> ̿' ̿'\̵͇̿̿\з=(◕_◕)=ε/̵͇̿̿/'̿'̿ ̿

When Declan was twelve, they were all at home for New Year’s Eve, writing wishes on long strips of red, white and blue paper. Matthew was on his sixth piece of paper, scrawling and scrawling wish after wish onto the tissue paper.

It had taken a long time for Ronan to think of anything to write. For inspiration, he snatched Declan’s from under his pen.

“Health?” Ronan looked disappointed.

“Why would you wish for health?” Matthew’s golden eyebrows drew together, “Getting sick is not that bad.” Declan had been unable to answer. He had simply stared at his younger brothers, mouth gaping like a fish.

Niall laughed and patted Matthew’s head, “I hope you never find out, my boy.”

Ronan tossed the paper back at Declan and returned to scratching his head and thinking hard. Later, Aurora would fold the pieces of paper into Niall’s fireworks. She would tell them that the fireworks were taking their wishes up to the stars, where they would be better heard.

*

Matthew sat next to him in the doctor’s office, a bundle of nervous energy.

Declan hated himself for making Matthew look like that. Matthew had burst into his dorm, his eyes already red and his expression pinched. The dorm’s state—upended draws, smashed plates and broken glass, dried vomit in the carpet—had not improved his worry. Matthew had pulled Declan around frantically, washing his face and hands, redressing him in pressed clean clothes, before he was bundled into a taxi.

Matthew’s crisp golden hair was strewn around his ears, his big eyes wet and shining. He had picked up a habit of scratching his scalp sharply when he was nervous, behind his ears and above one eyebrow.

The doctor felt the sarcoma on his wrist. Declan washed his face and showed her the bubbled melanoma. The bone cancer on his wrist. The granite golf balls he had felt just above his iliac crest on the soft side of his flank. The eye.

Declan answered every question. The golf balls, the sarcoma and his chest were painful, the eye, bone and melanoma were not. He was often dizzy. He was uncoordinated. He felt weak. He was prone to lapses in memory, sleepless nights, his muscles failed. Matthew watched him; stone faced.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” The doctor pressed her fingers into the hard lump of bone on his foot, “Especially in someone so young. You’ve not been irradiated somehow?”

Declan smiled, wryly, “I am just unlucky.”

*

“Don’t get a hotel room,” Matthew said, as soon as he left the doctor’s office.

“I can’t stay at my dorm,” Declan said, tiredly, sliding his gloves on, “it’s not clean.”

“No,” Matthew grabbed Declan’s hands, “No, I want you to come to my dorm.”

Declan blinked, “But your roommate—”

“I’ll get him to leave,” Matthew shook his head, “I can’t bear to think of you alone right now.”

Declan said nothing for a long time, his words vanished. He only stared at his youngest brother, like he was seeing something alien. His chest was warm. Eventually, he squeezed Matthew’s hands, and croaked, “Thank you.”

*

Matthew made a large steak and kidney pie with stewed cabbage, salted broccoli and fresh sweetcorn on the side. It smelled delicious and Declan managed to force himself to eat enough for Matthew to relax. Declan’s stomach still seized traitorously with every bite.

“You can borrow my spare pyjamas,” Matthew said, “I’ll move everything out of your dorm tomorrow and into here.”

“What about Stephen Lee?” Declan croaked.

“I don’t care,” Matthew said, “I’ll figure something out for him. He’ll be fine.”

Declan thought that was probably true. There was something about Matthew, some kind of magnetic power—people did what he wanted. He didn’t even always ask them to. If Stephen had a heart, then he would fall over himself to do whatever Matthew asked.

Declan changed into Matthew’s pyjamas. They were a little short on him, his lumpy ankles and wrists were on full display. Matthew’s eyes followed his limping.

“We should sleep soon,” Matthew said, “You look tired.”

Declan shut the light off.

The two dorm beds were close, crammed into one corner. Originally, all of Aglionby’s rooms had been single-occupant, but as their retinue increased, they converted the vast majority of the single rooms into doubles, which, with the standard double-bed per person, gave little room to walk around. They were building another dormitory in the back grounds.

Declan climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Matthew climbed in the other bed but kept his head out, baby blue eyes following every movement of Declan’s. He looked owlish and small; his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Are you alright, Matt?” Declan asked. He pressed his face into the pillow so he could watch Matthew with his good eye.

“Um,” Matthew’s eyes were wet, and he scratched the corner of his cheek. He bit his lip. Then, quietly, he asked, “Are you going to die?”

Declan closed his eye. “I don’t know, Matthew. I hope not. But it’s never certain, I’ve always worked knowing it’s a possibility.”

There was a small noise, like a gasp, and Declan peeled his eye open again.

Matthew’s eyes were watery. In the half-light his blue eyes glinted, like big blue gems. A fat tear broke free and rolled down his pink cheeks. He clutched his covers with his small hands around the covers.

Declan huffed and pulled his arm out of the warm covers and extended it. Matthew snatched his hand. Declan’s left hand was slow to curl around Matthew’s, but Matthew squeezed his fingers tightly, squeezing life into them.

“Are you really?” Matthew’s voice was painful and strange, “Dec, I don’t want you to die. Please don’t die.” He tugged on Declan’s hand, like he was trying to pull him out of bed.

“Shh,” Declan murmured, resting on his good elbow, “I’m not going anywhere, Matthew.”

“Don’t die,” Matthew begged, “Please don’t die. You can’t die.”

Declan wrapped his weak hand around Matthew’s and gave him a light tug. Matthew folded immediately, slipping out of bed and climbing into Declan’s bed, pulling his brother closer.

“Declan, you can’t be serious,” Matthew begged, voice thick with tears, “You aren’t really—you aren’t really going to die?”

Declan wrapped his arms around Matthew, “Shh, Matty. I’m not going anywhere, am I? I’m right here. I’m still right here.”

“Declan,” Matthew said, thickly. He turned his head away.

Declan drew him close and kissed the top of his head, like Aurora had done, when Matthew had a nightmare. He stroked Matthew’s golden curls. Declan had so much he wanted to ask him. Will you look after your brother, after I’m gone? Will you keep Ronan out of trouble, will you take up the reins and keep wrangling him to work? Will you two look after each other, will you protect each other from a world that eats Lynches, even the strong ones, even the ones which weren’t sick? But he can’t ask him. So instead the questions stick like toffee to the roof of his mouth, a small hard lump in his palate, a hard granite ball.

*

Matthew woke up before him and brought Declan coffee and cereal that Declan managed to choke down. Matthew’s eyes were red and raw, he looked utterly miserable. Both of his brothers were very open books, Declan observed, and terrible liars. Declan could immediately read both of them, so automatically that he was always surprised that they had no idea what Declan was feeling. Declan’s illness had hit Matthew all at once. He really hadn’t had an inkling.

Sunlight streamed through the room. Henrietta was beautiful outside their window, a beautiful bird’s-egg blue. White clouds streaked across the horizon.

“How long have you had it?” Matthew asked.

Declan glanced up and raised an eyebrow. He took a long sip of his coffee.

“You didn’t seem surprised,” Matthew explained, “when the doctor said it was bad. And you knew all the cancer names.”

Declan sighed, “I’ve always had it. Niall dreamed up something to keep it at bay, a sort of medicine. But now I only have four doses left.”

“Can’t Ronan make more?” Matthew asked.

Declan shook his head, “Not unless he learns to Dream on command any time soon. I wouldn’t want to burden him like that.”

Matthew chewed the corner of his toasted bagel. He kept glancing over at Declan.

The coffee had upset Declan’s stomach and he rubbed his battered belly, “Do you think I should tell Ronan?”

“A little,” Matthew admitted.

“I tried,” Declan said, closing his eyes, “He wouldn’t pick up his phone. I don’t want to tell him at church.”

“Would he punch you?” Matthew asked. He looked like he was about to cry again. “He’d be angry.”

Declan peered at him, “I don’t know. Probably not.”

Matthew ran his fingers over the deep red loops of grain across the wooden kitchen table. His blue eyes were lost and distant. Declan hated to see him so unhappy, so down. He looked more depressed than Declan felt, he was always uncomfortably open and emotional. It was like Matthew had a glass chest and Declan only had to glance over to see every feeling in his heart, every thought that crossed his mind.

“I’m going to get more groceries,” Matthew said, voice a little stronger, “What’s your favourite kind of tea, again?”

Declan had already told him, but he told him again: “Earl Grey. And if you could get some skimmed milk, that would be good.”

Matthew smiled, weakly, “Of course.”

*

“Declan?”

Declan set his book down. He had been sorting novels in the library and was trying to find the right code for the battered copy of Moby Dick that was weighting his arms down. He glanced around.

Adam Parrish stood between the library shelves. His uniform was old and slightly thread-bare at the elbows and knees. They had changed the style of tie at the last PTA meeting, but Adam still wore the old blue-black one.

“Hello,” Declan smiled.

“I’m Adam,” Adam said.

Declan already knew pretty much everything about the boy, but tilted his head with interest as if he didn’t, “Did Ronan send you?”

“No,” Adam said, “I wanted to… well, I wanted to ask if you were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Declan said, “Why?”

“You look sick.”

Declan said nothing. He could see what Ronan liked about Adam—Ronan had always liked people who were straight forward. It was probably part of the reason why he _dis_ liked Declan so much. That, and Adam was handsome in a boyish, uncomplicated kind of way.

“Sorry if I’m being too forward,” Adam said, “But your eye…?”

“I get migraines,” Declan said.

“Sure, but not just that, either,” Adam said, “When you fought with Ronan, your hand—”

“Excuse me,” Declan cut through sharply, “but my health is really none of your business.”

Adam straightened up. He had the decency to look embarrassed, “Sorry. It’s just… I care about Ronan and Ronan cares about you, so… I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Declan felt a sharp prick of anger. Ronan cared about him, in theory. In practice Ronan did everything in his power to throw Declan out of his life, alternating between violence and icy silence. Declan closed his eyes and forced the anger away. He didn’t want to snap at Adam.

“If Ronan wants to know,” Declan said, “then he can come and ask me himself. He doesn’t get to send his boyfriend to ask after me.”

“I’m sorry,” Adam said.

It sounded so genuine that Declan opened his eyes and looked at him. Adam’s face was tired and sad. He looked very old, all of a sudden.

“It’s not right, what Ronan does,” Adam said, “I know he’s angry, but still.”

“It’s how he deals with things,” Declan said, shortly. He jammed the library books back onto the shelves in random places. “It’s what our father taught us.”

“I don’t know,” Adam sighed, “no matter what you said or did, for him to hit you like that…”

“It’s how he is,” Declan shook his head, “I don’t know why you’re talking to me about this.”

Adam fidgeted. He looked like he might leave, but he stayed, and leaned against the opposite bookshelves. For a long while, he just watched, and then he said: “You’re putting them back in the wrong place.”

Declan gave him a flat look.

“The code is for the shelf above,” Adam reached over and pulled out the book Declan had just put in and resettled it in the correct slot.

Declan looked down at him. Adam was over a head shorter than him, and built like a swimmer, with narrow shoulders and long legs. Adam’s dark blonde hair curled around his ears, slightly darker at the back of his neck. He smiled at Declan, a soft smile that reminded him of Matthew.

“I’m glad Ronan has you,” Declan said, and held out the next book for him, “He will—he needs someone to look after him.”

“We look after each other,” Adam said, taking the book from Declan’s hands.

*

Declan sat in the doctor’s office, glad that he had managed to make Matthew stay at home.

“It’s called Sympathetic Damage,” The doctor said, moving the torch out of Declan’s right eye, “One retina gets damaged, and the other one begins to fail too.”

Blind, Declan thought. I am going blind.

He looked up the progression of the cancer in the bathroom of the doctor’s office. He scrolled through pictures of swelling eye sockets and hard protrusions of flesh and bone. He imagined his eye drooping, ugly and slimy, from his face.

*

On the steps of the hospital, Kavinsky is stretched out like a lazy house cat. Smoke coils up from his lit cigarette.

“No luck, Mr. Lynch?” Kavinsky calls, high and musical.

“Leave me alone,” Declan said.

“Hey,” Kavinsky said, “I’m just sitting here. You’re the fucker on their feet.”

Declan stood in front of him, watching him darkly. He couldn’t decide if he was angry or fearful, but he settled on the former. Kavinsky had one arm over the hospital sign, the lighter hanging from his long fingers.

“You want something?” Kavinsky asked.

“Not really,” Declan said, but he didn’t move.

Kavinsky didn’t seem to mind. His long hair was scraped back from his forehead. There was a pink scar which split a chunk of his forehead off and extended into his hairline. He gestured his half-empty pack of Malboros at him.

“No thanks,” Declan said, “they’re bad for you.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you think they’re going to do to you,” Kavinsky said, drawing them back, “that life hasn’t already done.”

Declan started to walk, shaking his head. The air was cold. Declan lifted his face and watched the clouds shift far above him, the ravens pitch and wheel on the horizon. Kavinsky was right, after all. A heaviness followed him.

*

It was night.

Declan walked through the wet cemetery. Rain pattered around him, beading on the edge of his tight-woven black wool coat. The leaves that bordered the path were shining with rainwater, the flowers on the graves drooped and shed petals across the dark stone.

That morning, Declan had used two of his doses. He had woken up with a blue tinged hand and an ankle which had ossified into a bony lump. He needed to walk, and he needed his hand to survive, so he had slid one needle into the sarcoma the other into his lower shin. Afterwards, he had cried.

The air was bitter. Rain spat at him, soaked his hair slick against his head. Cold water ran down the back of his neck.

Declan knelt at the foot of his father’s grave. He set the umbrella, unused, down next to him. A heavy feeling filled him, so overwhelming it threatened to topple him over.

“Is it true?” Declan asked Niall.

Niall Lynch’s grave was unmoving and dark. The stone was clean and crisp, not yet old, and the letters cut into it had such a sharp edge it might cut him. The grass was heavy with rain and flattened.

“Is it really true?” Declan asked, “Would you really—you would really do that to me? You did all of this?”

Declan lifted his left hand and put it in the grass. It was slow to unfold from its claw, and the fingers hurt distantly, shaking as he extended them. His palm pressed into the wet mud. Rain pounded around them.

“Why?”

Declan pressed his forehead into the hard headstone. He curled his hands around the dark grass. Icy dampness spread down his back.

“You didn’t have to,” Declan croaked to nobody, “You didn’t have to. I-I loved you. I really loved you. If you’d asked, Dad, I would have stayed. I promise I would have.”

Tears burned in Declan’s eyes. He screwed his eyes shut and they dribbled down his nose. It felt like something was opening in his chest, something hot and painful. His weak arm shook.

With a whump, Declan collapsed onto the cold, wet grass. All he could see was the black Henrietta night, starless and empty. Rain fell directly onto his face and he had to close his eyes. The heat of his tears was quashed and cooled.

“Oh, fuck…” Declan sniffed, his eyes still full of tears. “I’m really going to die.”


	4. Be Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have to start updating more frequently due to certain life events; my roommate had Corona and didn't tell me 🥺. So the stock market may have crashed and you can't find toilet paper for love nor money, but this fic will be getting daily updates so? Swings and roundabouts? 
> 
> Also, Be Still by the killers is a very fitting song for this fic
>
>> _Don't break character  
>  You've got so much heart  
> Is this real or just a dream?  
> Oh rise up like the sun and  
> Labor 'til the work is done_  
> 
> 
>   
> X  
> X  
> X  
> X  
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> ୧( ˵ ° ~ ° ˵ )୨ 

Ronan punched him in the face before Latin class.

Declan had approached him in attempt to tie up loose ends. He knew Ronan attended Latin regularly, but he hadn’t used it to corner him before in case that caused him to start skipping class to avoid him. I want you to attend more often, he had said, I want you to call me when something happens, and I want you to talk to Matthew more. I want you to grow up and stop acting so childish.

Declan hadn’t even realised how demanding his tone had been until the fist connected with his cheekbone.

While Declan staggered around the hallway, Ronan shoulder-checked him as he passed. Adam cast a sympathetic look at him and glared sharply at Ronan. They both disappeared into the classroom.

Declan regained his balance after a minute of tottering around. His cheek hurt, but his bad eye hurt worse, so he could ignore it easily. Part of Declan wanted to tell him, but then what? Ronan might just think it was a cheap ploy to get his attention. But more than anything—Declan was scared Ronan wouldn’t care.

In the interest of loose ends, Declan called his girlfriend to break up with her.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ashley three said, after he told her, “ _You’ve been ignoring me for two weeks now, baby. I figured it was something like this_.”

*

Declan picked up some ice cream on his trip to town. He had told his tutor about the surgery he had at the weekend and the tutor had pulled some strings and had him excused from most of his classes. He searched through the aisles in the local grocery store and uncovered the sickly-sweet, rocky-road ice cream that Matthew liked.

“Matty,” Declan set the ice cream down on their little kitchenette table, “It’s the kind you like. There was only one left, but I got it.”

Matthew padded into the kitchen and all colour drained out of his face. He stared up at Declan’s face, horror etched into his eyes.

Declan took a step back, unnerved, “Is something wrong? Has my tumour grown?”

Matthew quickly rounded the table and reached up a hand to Declan’s face. Declan’s eyes fluttered shut and Matthew touched his bruise, tenderly.

“Who hit you?” Matthew asked, quietly.

Declan grimaced. He looked away.

“He did, didn’t he?” Matthew drew back, gritting his teeth.

Declan very rarely saw Matthew angry. He hated it. “Ronan doesn’t know, Matt. He didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care,” Matthew pulled on his shoes roughly. He snatched his coat up from the side.

“Matthew,” Declan protested, but Matthew ignored him, snatching up his car keys from the kitchen table and storming out. Matthew was still too young to be driving alone, so Declan sent up a little prayer that nobody would catch him. The door slammed shut so hard the wall shook.

*

“Matthew?” Gansey tilted his head when he opened the door, “Can I help you?”

“Is Ronan in?” Matthew asked. His usually cheery countenance was sour, his eyes shadowed, and his golden eyebrows knitted together. His elbows were slightly bent, and his teeth were gritted.

“Yeah,” Gansey said, “He’s in the—”

Matthew shoved past him.

Ronan stood up from the couch and read Matthew’s expression, “Matty, what’s wrong?”

Matthew punched him.

Ronan toppled over, his knees hitting the couch behind him. He was caught by such surprise his eyes went wide and dark. He cradled his cheek and peered back at Matthew, dazed.

“Come on, then, you big prick!” Matthew yelled, “Come hit me!”

“Matthew?” Ronan stood up, massaging his jaw, “Matthew, what’s wrong?”

“Hit me!” Matthew swung at his brother, who dodged backwards, “Come and fucking hit me, then!” Matthew snatched the front of Ronan’s shirt and smacked him across the face. Ronan tried to pull him off, but Matthew was relentless, cracking his knuckles against Ronan’s ribs and burying his fist into Ronan’s stomach.

“Stop it!” Ronan finally managed to catch Matthew’s wrists and force him back, “I’m not going to hit you!”

Matthew pivoted his hips and drove his foot into Ronan’s crotch. Ronan went down like a bag of rocks, cracking his head against the floor of Monmouth Manufacturing. Ronan curled into a ball and groaned.

Matthew had begun to cry.

Niall had said it was a tactical disadvantage; Matthew crying when he was angry. Niall joked about losing visual aid in a fight. But there was something so frightening about a face twisted with rage while tears gleamed and dripped from his chin.

“Why?!” Matthew screamed, “Why won’t you hit me? You’ll hit Declan!”

Ronan rolled onto his side, still winded, and gritted out: “That’s different. You wouldn’t understand.”

Matthew clenched his teeth, his fists curling, “What did he do, Ronan?! What did he fucking do to deserve it? Tell me.”

“Declan deserves it!” Ronan growled, “He’s a smarmy bastard! You really think he cared, when Dad died? Do you really?!”

For a moment Matthew looked like he was going to kick him, but when the moment passed, Matthew’s body lost tension. He sunk to his knees. Tears dripped from his face in an irregular patter. He leaned forward, until he was on all-fours, until he was nearly eye-level with Ronan.

“I hope it’s fucking worth it,” Matthew hissed, “I hope you never wake up one day and wish you had him in your life. I hope when he dies you won’t fucking regret it all, Ronan, because you clearly have a fucking _monopoly_ on missing our parents—cause after all, it was only _your_ dad that was murdered, wasn’t it? Declan’s never had to deal with it, has he?!”

Ronan stared back at him. The sheer, naked hostility in Matthew’s face was difficult to look at, like seeing a bright light.

Matthew wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, scrubbing at his wet face. He stood in one shuffling motion and stalked towards the door. He shoved Gansey aside.

“If you so much as touch my brother, Ronan,” Matthew threw the door open, “I’ll never speak to you again.”

He slammed the door behind him.

*

When Matthew retuned to his dorm, he made a beeline for Declan and engulfed him into a hug. As he pulled his arms around his older brother, he felt thin, wiry ribs, the notches of his spine as painfully exposed as the cogs in a wheel. He stared to cry.

Declan wrapped his arms around him, “Are you alright?”

“Are you?” Matthew asked, face buried in Declan’s uniform shirt, “You’re getting thinner.”

“Not for much longer,” Declan murmured, “I just ate all of your ice-cream.”

Matthew gave a weak laugh.

*

Declan woke up the next morning without his beauty.

It was only a matter of time, he figured, before he got a tumour in a place he couldn’t hide. This one pushed at his right eye. It looked like an allergic reaction, the skin pale white and bulbous. The growth had pressed down on his tear duct and his eye had started to weep in the night, letting out a steady trail of tears, which tracked over his distorted face. It also smeared any makeup he tried to apply to the growing brown melanoma underneath it, so he just wiped off all the makeup and slid a large pair of sunglasses over his eyes.

When he walked into the kitchen, Matthew regarded his sunglasses warily. “Show me,” Matthew asked.

Declan flipped his sunglasses up.

Matthew stared at him. His eyes were wide. Then, a moment too late to be genuine, he said: “Oh, it doesn’t look so bad.”

“I look like Quasimodo,” Declan let the sunglasses drop back over his eyes.

“Maybe if we ever go back to the barns, we can build you a clocktower,” Matthew said. He sliced some bread.

“It’s a bell tower,” Declan corrected.

Matthew grinned, “Your jawline’s still good. And you have nice teeth.”

“Thank you,” Declan moved over to the coffee machine.

Matthew dropped his bread into the toaster and pushed it down. There were breadcrumbs all over the black counter, like little brown stars.

“I…” Declan put a hand on Matthew’s shoulder, “I don’t want you to fight with Ronan again.”

Matthew scowled. He let out a noise of disagreement.

“I’m serious,” Declan said.

“I was so angry at him yesterday,” Matthew murmured, “I could have killed him—I was that angry.”

Declan frowned, “On my account?”

“Who else?” Matthew muttered.

Declan sighed and leaned against the kitchen work top. He rubbed his painful wrist. The coffee machine grumbled and vibrated the work surface behind him.

“Us Lynches are endangered,” Declan said, finally, “There’s not many of us left, Matt. We can’t take each other for granted.”

“Tell Ronan that,” Matthew snapped.

“I have,” Declan closed his eyes.

Matthew shot him a dark look, “I can’t just forgive Ronan because he’s my brother. It doesn’t work like that.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Declan said. He rubbed his knuckles, “I’m asking… I don’t know. I want to know you’re going to take care of him, if I go.”

Behind him, the coffee machine chuffed and shuddered slightly, before an exact serving of expresso dropped into the waiting mug. The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. Matthew breathed in deeply.

“What about you?” Matthew said, staring at the floor, “Who takes care of you?”

Declan said nothing.

Tears came to Matthew’s eyes. He rubbed his face. Declan felt a twinge of pain in his chest. He hated being the source of Matthew’s tears.

“Come here,” Declan said, quietly.

Matthew wrapped his arms around Declan, tight, tight, like he could trap him in the kitchen with him. Like Declan might just float away. He caught the fabric of Declan’s shirt in his fingers and curled a fist around them, leaving deep wrinkles.

“I love you, Matty,” Declan murmured into Matthew’s golden head, “and I love Ronan, too.”

“Despite everything,” Matthew gritted out, his voice rough.

“Not despite or because,” Declan told him, “but always, anyway.”

Matthew stood on his tippy toes to rest his chin on Declan’s shoulder. He breathed out softly, his eyes closing.

“I love you both and I want you to love each other,” Declan muttered, “I want you both to live happy and long and fruitful lives. I made some mistakes with Ronan; I want you to love him despite the mistakes he makes. Alright?”

“It’s not fair,” Matthew grumbled.

Declan raised his eyebrows, “Ronan’s not that bad, Matthew.”

“Not that,” Matthew murmured into Declan’s shirt, “I want… I want more time. We just lost our parents. Don’t we deserve more time?”

It came out sounding oddly petulant and endearing. Declan smiled, despite the heaviness in his chest. He wrapped his arms tighter around Matthew.

“I’m sorry,” Declan said, “I wish I could give that to you.”

*

Evening always came slow to Henrietta at this time of year. It stretched out too early, and the sun seemed to dim while it was still high in the sky, the light gaining the flat, distant quality of a dwindling afternoon.

Declan slurped his iced tea. His eye hurt and his ankles were rusty and stiff. The synthetic taste of peaches filled his mouth and he enjoyed the chill of it. Nino’s ice machine had broken, but that worked in Declan’s favour, because the ice usually only acted as a solid filler to limit how much iced tea he got. Although, the iced tea being lukewarm wasn’t ideal. And you couldn’t really call it iced tea when—

“Declan!” Ronan broke through Declan’s important musings, stalking through Nino’s parking lot.

Declan pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. He didn’t like how his heart sank when he saw his younger brother approach, “Hello.”

Ronan snatched him by the lapels and slammed him back into the wall. Declan didn’t resist, only looking blankly up at him through his tinted lenses.

“I didn’t think you were that petty, Declan,” Ronan snarled, “but using Matthew to fight your battles for you? That’s fucking low.”

Declan tried to lift his iced tea to his lips to take another sip. Ronan smacked it out of his hand, and it splattered across the tarmac, splashing over Ronan’s shoes.

“Take this seriously, you bastard!” Ronan snapped, “I thought we had an unspoken agreement to leave Matthew out of this. I can’t believe you—” Ronan stopped suddenly. He leaned back, his grip loosening, “Are you—Are you crying?”

“No,” Declan said. He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed delicately under his right eye, “It just leaks sometimes.”

Ronan glared at him, “Are you really lying to me right now?”

Declan knocked his sunglasses up onto his forehead.

Ronan let go of him immediately and took a hasty step back. He looked horrified. His skin was pale, “What the fuck happened to you?”

Declan touched his face tenderly. The hard lumps under his fingertips were irregular and strange, the warped eye socket, the split and blackened skin under his eyelid like the dark, soft parts of a rotten fruit. Parts of it, like the darker patches, were so painful that even the light breeze made the skin nearly unbearable, and other parts were utterly numb, like the strange bulbs of flesh above his eyeball.

“It’s a late-stage ocular melanoma,” Declan said, “and there’s an osteosarcoma above it. I can’t see out of that eye anymore.”

Ronan searched his face desperately. His arms were still outstretched, like he was about to grab Declan again and shake him. His hands grasped air.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ronan snapped.

“How many missed calls do you have?” Declan asked, tilting his head. His bad eye didn’t follow the track of the other one, which gave him a disconcerting, crossed-eye look. He smiled humourlessly.

Ronan glared, “You should have told me anyway! You’ve seen me plenty of times—”

“Should I have told you before or after you punched me, each of those times?” Declan asked, sharply. He closed his eyes and shook his head a little to dispel the anger, “Listen, Ronan, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t dodge all my calls and also expect to be informed of everything. It doesn’t work like that.”

Ronan’s mouth snapped shut. His jaw tightened.

“I’m sorry,” Declan said, voice soft, “and, also… In case you need me to say it, I’m not holding anything against you. I do forgive you.”

Ronan looked angry. His teeth ground together, every part of him tense, “How long? How long have you been hiding this from me?”

Declan sighed.

He slid on his sunglasses and brushed his hair away from his forehead. He smoothed his lapels down and folded his handkerchief with practiced ease, before tucking it carefully into his breast pocket. Declan patted his suit front lightly.

“Ronan, I have surgery tomorrow,” Declan said, finally, “It’s very close to my brain, so it’s not without risk.”

Declan stepped away from the wall. He brushed dust from his shoulders. Ravens crowed in nearby trees, their tails wagging and ducking. Sunlight made long white streaks across the empty parking lot, the stones glowing in the light’s path.

“This might be the last Friday night I have on earth,” Declan said, “I’d like some time alone to enjoy it. I presume that’s alright with you—you’ve never had trouble giving me space in the past.”

Ronan said nothing. He only stood, alone and cold, and watched Declan pad away. The world was very silent and still.


	5. Open up the Heavens/We're Kicking Down the Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter. I think the next one will be especially long. 
> 
> .  
> .
> 
> ฅ^•ﻌ•^ฅ

“You haven’t eaten your egg McMuffin,” Declan pointed out. He was sitting in the hospital waiting room, his legs crossed. His ankles throbbed dully, and no matter how he sat he could never relieve both at the same time. It felt like there was a tight band just under the knot of bone in his ankle, a tight blue elastic band like the kind they put on lamb tails to dock them.

Matthew sighed and leaned on his wrist. He poked the beige lumps with his index finger, the plastic-coated wrapping crinkling, “Do you want it?”

“I’m not allowed to eat,” Declan reminded him, “Water only.”

Matthew looked grim. His usually bright face was waxen and lined, his eyes heavy-lidded. He had not slept, Declan knew, because they’d spent the night both awake and listening to music. It had all been tracks their parents had liked: Don Mclean, The Mamas & Papas, Eagles, Fleetwood Mac. Declan had thrown in some Blur and Radiohead to break it up a little.

“Could you have a smoothie?”

“No,” Declan said, “But I’m not hungry, anyway.”

Matthew folded up his McMuffin and tossed it into the bin. He brushed crumbs from his chair, “Are you… scared?”

Declan considered that for a long moment. He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t have a choice,” Declan said, finally, “I have to get it removed.”

“That’s not a no,” Matthew pointed out.

Declan sighed, “No, it’s not.”

There was a knock against the wall.

“Mr. Lynch?” The nurse watched the brothers with warm, dark eyes. She shifted the clipboard against her chest, “We’re ready to begin preparing you for the operation now.”

*

Ronan knocked on the dormitory door and took a quick step back, as if he was expecting the door to blast open. As it was, he only heard a distant thump and muffled footsteps. The latch drew back, and the door opened.

Matthew looked devastated. His eyes were a bright, painful red. Ronan had not seen him so upset since the funeral. He regarded Ronan flatly.

“Hey,” Ronan said.

“Hello,” Matthew said, leaning against the door. His hair was flat on one side and it was clear he hadn’t brushed it.

Ronan lifted up the plastic bag of MacDonald’s to show him, “I brought you a big mac.”

“I’m not hungry,” Matthew said.

Ronan scratched the back of his neck, “Can we talk?”

Matthew stared at him for a long moment before, very reluctantly, he took step back to let Ronan inside. Ronan stepped past him and Matthew shut the front door.

Matthew’s dorm room was slightly cluttered. For anyone else, that would be normal, but for Matthew it showed a deep unsettlement, like finding cracks in old stone. Matthew was usually such a clean freak that whenever he visited Monmouth Manufacturing, he began absently arranging the shoes by colour and size.

“What do you want?” Matthew asked. It came out sharp, like a demand.

Ronan grimaced. He set the bag of fast food onto the counter, pushing aside a pile of textbooks. Pens bounced across the floor and rolled under the cabinet.

“Sorry,” Matthew said, stiffly, “I’m just… I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“It’s alright,” Ronan said, “Can I have some coffee?”

Matthew nodded and turned around to start making some. He brushed breadcrumbs off into the floor and took two clean coffee cups out of the cupboard.

Ronan really didn’t know what to say. He wished this was a situation where he could send Gansey or Adam in to do the talking for him, to smooth things over and make it so Matthew would act normal around him again. Ronan hadn’t really done anything wrong. Declan had been the one lying. So he just waited in the silent kitchen, watching Matthew measure out coffee grinds.

“Aren’t you even going to ask how his operation went?” Matthew asked, without turning around.

“Oh,” Ronan leaned back, “How did it go?”

Matthew glared at him and finished putting the grinds into the machine. He measured out the water for the filter and put the cups under the nozzle to catch the low stream of expresso. Milk steamed in the other section of the machine.

“The tumour was bigger than they expected,” Matthew said, “They didn’t want to destabilise his skull too much so they just removed the affected eye and whatever they could of the bone. But they think it is pretty much guaranteed to regrow at this point.”

“Fuck,” Ronan grumbled, “Why did that dickhead wait so long to get it seen to? That thing was fucking huge.”

Matthew shot him a very icy look.

Ronan’s mouth formed a thin line. He had always been able to insult Declan around Matthew before and Matthew, even if he wouldn’t always reciprocate, would smile indulgently and egg him on. But now Matthew looked like he might hit him.

It had been Declan who had taught Matthew to box. Niall had taught his eldest sons himself and had wanted Ronan to teach Matthew. But Ronan was a bad teacher. At that age, Ronan had just wanted to win, and even when he tried to teach, he didn’t explain himself properly and became quickly frustrated. But Declan had been the one to take his youngest brother aside and adjust his form and offer encouraging, warm words when Matthew landed a hit properly. Declan let Matthew hit him and corrected the shape and fold of his fist.

When Ronan had taught Gansey to box, he had thought often of the way Declan had taught Matthew. The easy praises and the calm manner had not come easy to Ronan. He had to force himself to find something to compliment about Gansey’s fumbling, clumsy swings, but when he did he was rewarded by such a happy, warm smile that it seemed worth it. How had he forgotten all of that? Ronan had a rough feeling in the centre of his chest.

“I think it’s a Dream thing,” Matthew said, setting two steaming coffees on the kitchen table, “the more I think about it, the more I think that’s what’s happening.

“How could it even be a Dream thing?” Ronan asked, sharply, “Declan’s not a Dreamer.”

“He’s had the tumours his whole life,” Matthew said, “I just think, with all the things Dad could do, he really couldn’t cure him properly? And they grow so fast, impossibly fast, and all the doctors don’t understand how—”

“Did Declan tell you that?” Ronan snapped, “Does he think, what, that it’s somehow _Dad’s_ fault he’s sick?”

Matthew’s eyes lowered and he took a sip of his coffee. The steam curled around his face. His golden hair had rivulets in it where he had passed his hands through.

“I keep thinking about a time when we were all very young,” Matthew said, his voice hushed, “You weren’t there. I must have been about seven and I woke up in the middle of the night because Declan was crying in the bathroom.”

Ronan sat back in his chair.

“Declan’s knees were swollen up,” Matthew said, “when I touched them, they were both—really warm and bright pink, like they had been scolded, and they were swollen. Anyway… well, I went and got Dad, and Dad told me to calm down and go back to bed. And he just picked up Declan by the elbow and pulled him away. I don’t know how to explain it. Niall didn’t even look at him, just yanked him to his feet, and when Declan stumbled, he lifted him up by the arm, so his feet weren’t touching the floor.”

Ronan stared at him for a long moment, “That doesn’t mean anything. Dad had just woken up. He probably wasn’t in the mood to deal with a crying kid.”

“It felt more than that,” Matthew said, “Dad looked angry. And the way he was pulling Declan around, it was like—”

“You can’t do that to him,” Ronan snapped, “You can’t take away all the happy moments and the good things Niall has done, just because he was a bit rough with Declan once when we were all annoying kids.”

Matthew watched him. It was a blank look that Ronan couldn’t read. The smell of coffee permeated the air and the coffee machine sighed softly as it released the pressure. Low sunlight broke across the unwashed plates in the sink, the corners of half-eaten sandwiches by the tap.

“Has it ever seemed to you,” Matthew asked, quietly, “that Niall didn’t really care about Declan? At least, not as much as he cared about us?”

Ronan opened his mouth to respond, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. After a long moment, he closed his mouth again and swallowed.

*

Ronan parked in the hospital parking lot and spent fifteen minutes digging around the seats of his BMW to find enough loose change to pay the meter, because of course the card machine wasn’t working. The drink he’d brought sweated gently on his dashboard until he paid the ticket and snagged it again. Henrietta sun was in full force toward, more glare than warmth, and he pushed his sunglasses up his nose as he walked towards the hospital.

The receptionist, a big-eared young man in a dress shirt two sizes too large for him, pointed the way to the critical care unit. Ronan did not like the sound of that, but he pressed on.

“You’re going to have to be quiet,” the nurse outside the unit warned him, “and you’re allowed drinks, just don’t spill it anywhere.”

“No, I mean,” Ronan lifted the iced tea, “This is for him.”

The nurse gave him a strange look, “All the patients on this ward are on drip-feeding.”

“Right,” Ronan dropped the drink into a waste bin. He didn’t like peaches much. The nurse opened the door for him.

Declan Lynch was stretched out under a thin blue blanket. His face was a mess of tubes and his wrist was plastered with an IV. His remaining eye was closed and dark around the edges. There was no motion or tension anywhere in him. He looked like a corpse.

“He might not be able to respond,” the nurse said, “He’s awake, but after facial surgery usually the anaesthetic they’re on won’t allow them to speak. And be aware that he’s not the most on-the-ball as he might have been in the past.”

“Right,” Ronan said, “I’m not getting him to do my calculus.”

The nurse didn’t find that funny, but she stepped away, “I’ll be dealing with other patients on this ward. If you need anything, just call and I’ll here you.”

“Thank you,” Ronan said.

The nurse gave him a thin smile and disappeared.

Ronan approached Declan’s side and sat down on the visitor’s chair. Leather squeaked under him. “Declan?” Ronan asked, “Dec, can you hear me?”

No response.

Ronan put a hand on Declan’s cold arm and shook it.

Declan’s eye opened. The single blue eye was flat and unfocused, the pupil swollen unnaturally large. He took a moment to find Ronan and when he did, there was no spark of recognition. He only watched Ronan.

“Can you hear me?” Ronan asked, “Blink. Blink if you can hear me. Blink once.”

Declan watched him. After a long moment, he blinked. Ronan wandered if he could actually hear him, or it was just a normal response. That was stupid. The nurse had already said Declan could hear him. Ronan was being stupid. He gritted his teeth.

He felt that often whenever he thought of Declan—remorseful, stupid and then angry. The entire situation brought out a deep, deep unease in him, like something dark and invisible was hunting him. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that everything was spiralling out of control. It drove him crazy to feel like that. He didn’t have a good grip on life at the best of times.

Why did Matthew and Declan seem to have such an easy time getting over Niall’s death, while it had sent Ronan spinning and derailing even ages later? Did his brothers not care about their father because they saw something dark and evil in the man that Ronan had never even caught a whiff of? Or was Ronan just weak and too soft for the world, born without armour, felt every bump of life like an earthquake?

Ronan straightened his back, massaging his knuckles. There was a tight pressure in him, like a steaming kettle.

“Did you really—” Ronan snapped his mouth shut and when he continued, his voice was much quieter, “Do you really think Dad did all this to you?”

Declan’s small blue eye watched him. He blinked slow and languid, like a cat on a warm day.

“I mean,” Ronan leaned forward, “why do I find all this out now, after Niall’s already dead and we can’t do anything about it? We can’t exactly ask him what he could and couldn’t dream up, can we?”

Declan watched him. No muscle in his face move. He didn’t even try to speak up.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Ronan growled, one hand around Declan’s limp wrist, “Are you really so spiteful that you think our dad could do something so fucked up?!”

“Sir,” The nurse said, sharply, “you need to calm down. Right now.”

Ronan jerked back quickly.

The nurse’s eyes were hard. She glanced between Ronan’s hand around Declan’s wrist, the single blue eye which watched him like a trapped animal. The heart rate monitor pattered nearby, just a tick too fast.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ronan snapped, “I wasn’t about to hit him.”

The nurse took a step back. Her eyes were wide, “Mr. Lynch, I’m going to have to ask you to leave before I call security.”

Ronan stood up so fast the chair clattered to the floor, “Hey! I didn’t do anything!”

The nurse’s hand flew to the panic button at her belt and hovered over it.

Ronan took a quick step back, kicking the chair out of his way. He closed his eyes and took a moment to forcibly calm himself down. It took longer than he expected. When he opened his eyes, he lowered his shoulders and kept his hands firmly by his side.

“I’m very sorry for the disturbance,” Ronan said, his voice stiff.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at him, “We will have to ban you from the ward if you continue to raise your voice and use that kind of language. Mr. Lynch is not the only patient on this ward and hearing that would distress anybody. I don’t know your brother on a personal level, but right now he is in a very vulnerable position both physically and mentally and none of the staff here will tolerate him being put under duress by visitors.”

“I know,” Ronan said, “I’m sorry.”

“I will have to report this incident,” the nurse warned him, “We take patient safety very seriously.”

“Yes, but,” Ronan said, “don’t ban me. Please. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not up to me,” the nurse said.

“Please,” Ronan took a step forward and the nurse took a step back. They stared at each other for a long moment.

Finally, the nurse relented, “I’ll still have to report it, but I’ll note that you’re young and immediately apologised. I’d advise you to take a few days to reach a place where you won’t bring this kind of aggression into the ward. Mr. Lynch is in critical condition.”

“I will,” Ronan said, “I’m sorry.” He didn’t think he’d ever apologised this much in his life.

The nurse nodded, “I’m afraid you’re still going to have to leave. Visiting hours end soon.”

Ronan knew they didn’t; it was only three and visiting hours extended until five. But he took the polite dismissal for what it was and ducked his head, leaving the ward.  



	6. Just How Thick is Your Skin?

Matthew set the CD-player beside the plastic flowers at Declan’s bedside. He had to wheedle and wrangle every smidgen of charm he had to use on the nurse, who had been extremely reluctant, so that she would let him have it. He had promised to play only clean songs, without even a minor cuss, and he promised to play only at the second to lowest volume. He set it right by Declan’s ear and still it only played quiet and soft.

The opening piano of the Oasis song was so familiar to him that he found himself nodding the tune, the drop of the drums happened just when he expected it. It had always played in the car while Declan had driven him to swim meets and dates.

“ _Slip inside the eye of your mind, / Don't you know you might find_ ,” Noel Gallagher sang, low and plain, “ _A better place to play…_ ”

“Hey,” Matthew said, “it’s a lovely day outside. Your cress is starting to grow properly now, I think you were right about it needing a little more light. I used some for the egg sandwich I had for breakfast, it was very nice.”

Declan’s eye was closed. He was deep asleep, so deep that Matthew doubted he could hear him, or the music at all. But they said hearing was the last sense to go, after sight and feeling and temperature and even pain, Declan would hear him. Even if they are still or restless you should talk to them as if they can still hear you, the website that Matthew visited that morning had told him.

It had also told him that persistent touch could feel invasive and that it was better to just sit at the bed side and talk. That had made Matthew go cold. The day before, he had rubbed Declan’s hands because they had felt so cold. He imagined Declan, paralysed by anaesthetic, Matthew’s touch painful and irritating, but utterly unable to stop him. A heat rushed up in Matthew and he forced himself to think about other things. He didn’t want to cry again.

“I passed my Algebra exam,” Matthew said. His voice wavered, but he was able to strengthen it again, “I, uh, studied with Stephen Lee. He’s not moving back in, don’t worry. It’ll still be all ready—all ready for when…”

Fuck. Matthew screwed his eyes shut and righted himself. It felt as though he was floating on a rocky ocean, and every stray thought pulled him down dangerously. He breathed deeply.

Then he stood and drew the railings around Declan’s bed. The nurse had left briefly to go to a different ward. The room only had one security camera, in the corner, and when Matthew stood with his back to it, his hands were unseen.

Matthew took the two little vials from his coat pocket. He had watched a dozen videos about preparing injections and found it easy to fit the long needle to the body of the syringe. The plunger drew up the full dose and, just as the internet had taught him, he pressed it into one of the long veins that tracked like vines up Declan’s arms. For once, he was glad how pale Declan was.

Blood welled up at the head of the needle and Matthew winced, but he knew that was normal. He administered most of the dose successfully. When he pulled the second dose, his hands were much steadier. He pushed it into Declan’s veins.

That was all he had. The little empty glass vials clinked together as he put them back into his pockets. He put the used needle into a sharps bin that was tucked into one of the nearby cabinets, which he hid further in the cabinet, between the extra linins and the spare bed pans.

Matthew produced a pink and purple band-aid, which he applied to the little fresh mark on Declan’s arm. He had bought the pack at the hospital shop on the way in, and it was covered in baby pink hearts. In looping purple cursive, it said: _Owie!_ Declan’s skin was clammy.

Gently, Matthew kissed his fingers and pressed it to the band-aid. He watched Declan’s sleeping face, as placid and empty as a mirror-like lake.

He sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair. It creaked under his weight.

“ _So Sally can wait, / She knows it's too late as she's walking on by_ ,” Noel Gallagher’s voice came over the roll of the drums, the sharp noise of guitar, crackling through the old speakers, “ _My soul slides away… But don't look back in anger / Don't look back in anger / I heard you say…_ ”

Declan’s chest rose and fell rhythmically. His eye did not flutter. The heart rate monitor beeped as consistently ticking clock.

“ _At least not today._ ”

*

Ronan couldn’t sleep.

This was not an unusual occurrence, but it felt different this time. It felt like there was something stuck between his shoulder blades or to his bottom rib, something that hung on and wouldn’t be removed. He was like a car with a burr stuck to its fur.

Ronan had always operated, consciously or unconsciously, on the assumption that he would be forgiven. It was something of a given with the friends he had. Gansey might be cold to him for a few days if he disappeared for a week with no notice or drag raced or hung out with Kavinsky or failed an exam or… any of the many things he regularly did to disappoint his best friend. But Gansey would fold and forgive him.

Even Adam, who tried his best to hold Ronan accountable, often had to forgive him. This was not least because Ronan was a difficult person to keep in the doghouse. This was not because Ronan was particularly charming or suave, although he could be, it was more that—being friends with Ronan meant that the last thing you were disappointed at him for doing was quickly replaced by a fresh horror that he had done. It was difficult to stay angry with a friend about repeated, consistent behaviour. It was true that Ronan was struggling, and found it hard to act reasonable and responsible, but the forgiving nature of his friends sometimes played into his decision making.

Ronan knew this. He knew he could be a better friend and a better boyfriend. He was starting to realise he should have been a better brother, too.

_Are you really so spiteful that you think our dad could do something so fucked up?!_

Declan was dying. Declan was dying and that might be the last thing Ronan had ever said to him.

*

Ronan arrived at the hospital with a thick bunch of Calla lilies in full bloom. The creamy white petals looked so beautiful, like fresh soft linens, and the stalks were straight and a vibrant green. They were tall enough to batter Ronan’s chin when he carried them on his hip.

The nurse outside the ward looked at him like he’d brought in a Glock.

“You can’t bring those in,” The nurse said, “Mr. Lynch is allergic to pollen.”

Ronan frowned at her, “No he isn’t.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow and flipped through her clipboard, “Declan Lynch has been prescribed three types of intense anti-histamines every summer the past six years. With his fragile health at the moment, fresh flowers could well cause a reaction which would close up his throat.”

“I…” Ronan frowned down at the flowers, “I didn’t know that.”

The nurse tilted her head at him, her eyes cold.

Ronan dropped the flowers into the waste basket, “Fine.”

The nurse moved into his path again, “You can’t come in. There is pollen all over your hands and clothing. It would only take a tiny grain to cause a reaction.”

“Alright!” Ronan snapped, unable to keep his anger tamped down, “Alright, I get the message.” He stalked away.

*

There was a morning Ronan remembered.

It had been a year before Niall’s death. Ronan had been doing homework in the kitchen with his father, who was helping him with Algebra. Niall was not amazing at math, but he had spent a few days before working through the rest of the book with Ronan. Ronan had glowed under the attention, between business trips and school, he hadn’t seen much of his father for a while before then.

Just as Niall was breaking down a long substitution problem, Declan had knocked lightly at the kitchen door. Niall had glanced up at his eldest son, impatiently.

“Dad,” Declan said, “Did you… Did you flush my Prozac?”

“No,” Niall said, firmly, “Your mother must have misplaced it while she was cleaning. Are you sure you checked properly?”

“Yes, I have,” Declan stepped into the kitchen, his expression unreadable, “Dad, you can’t just do that. I know you think—”

“I already told you I didn’t do it,” Niall snapped, “Don’t you dare talk back to me.”

The aggression in his voice had turned Ronan’s head. He glanced between the two men. The air had been thin, fractious.

“Besides, a boy like you doesn’t have anything to be depressed about,” Niall said, turning his eyes back to Ronan’s math work, “I’ve worked too hard for you to be upset with your life. Don’t you realise how ungrateful you sound?”

Declan straightened up. His blue eyes were cold, not hurt but guarded. He watched Niall closely and warily.

“Relax, Declan,” Niall said, “Don’t look at me like that. Can’t you be more like Ronan?”

At the time, Ronan had been thrilled. Although he would never admit it, not even under the pain of torture, he had always wanted to be like Declan. He wanted to be cool like Declan, unruffled and suave and excellent at studies and popular with everyone. He had bought black boots like Declan and a crisp button-down shirt and listened to all the same English rock that Declan did, even though he hated how slow and mumbled the songs were. The idea that _Declan_ should be _like Ronan_ was electric and amazing, and Ronan had smiled to himself, wholly pleased.

But now he remembered how Declan had glanced at Ronan, expression grim. He had watched Ronan’s broad smile, glanced across Niall’s cold glare. Declan had stood still, his mouth open, as if he had been about to speak. He waited for something and nothing happened.

Declan had bowed his head, “Sorry. I’ll check my room again.”

“You do that,” Niall said without looking up at him.

Their father had not looked up when Declan had left, closing the door gently behind him. Niall didn’t say anything to Ronan about him, he didn’t seem concerned or curious about him. Declan had been dismissed, completely.

*

Adam watched his boyfriend as Ronan drove, waiting for him to speak.

Adam had been waiting the whole evening. When Ronan wanted to say something, it was obvious, like he held a stone in his mouth. He glanced at Adam surreptitiously, he tightened and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. But still, he said nothing.

They arrived at Monmouth Manufacturing. In the past, he hadn’t been Adam hadn’t been able to stay over. Adam’s parents did not really care if he wasn’t home for a few nights, but they had still made him remind them days ahead of time, so they had the option of pulling their permission away from him if they were unhappy with something. And they always did.

Now that Adam was out from under their clutches, he felt a dizzying kind of freedom. He could go anywhere. He could do anything.

Adam left the car. Ronan slammed the door after him. He looked like he was nursing a heartache, he kept touching his chest.

“You forgot your phone,” Adam said, shaking the black device at him. It had been turned off for the past two days. Ronan didn’t even look at it, so Adam just slid it into his pocket.

Monmouth Manufacturing was warm. Gansey was away at his parent’s place and Noah had vanished on one of his inexplicable errands, so they were all alone. The heating still blazed because Gansey was worried about the pipes freezing, so Adam leaned against the warm radiators.

Adam pressed his cold fingers to the warm metal, “Are you—”

“I think—” Ronan started.

They both stopped.

Adam watched him, “You go. I was just going to ask if you were alright.”

Ronan took in a deep breath, his shoulder rising. He rubbed his jaw, “I think… I think Niall might have been a bad parent.”

“Okay,” Adam said.

“Like, very bad,” Ronan squeezed his hands, “I think he might have been abusing Declan.”

Adam only waited.

“He used to make fun of him,” Ronan said, “Whenever Declan had a recital or a speech or anything and we were driving back, Niall used to try to embarrass him. He’d pick something Declan had done and use it to humiliate him in front of the rest of us. We’d hear about it for weeks. I didn’t think it was that bad, because Declan never cried or complained, he just went very stiff and still and said nothing.”

Ronan sat down on the arm of the couch. He didn’t look angry, just tight, like his jaw was about to seize up.

“Niall didn’t do it to me or Matthew. Whenever we got a bad grade, he would just cuff us on the ear and tell us to do better next time,” He said, “but when Declan dropped a few points, everyone would hear about it. He used to... stick the record card to the dining room wall so we would all look at it when we ate. One summer Declan tried to hide it and Aurora had to take Matthew and me to our rooms because Niall was so angry with him. I could hear him shouting through the walls.”

Ronan ran a hand over his scalp, “I used to think—I thought it was mutual, somehow. Declan was always polite and always respectful to Niall, but I still thought he was doing something wrong. I thought Declan was causing it. I didn’t see anything wrong with it, I could keep Dad on my good side and Declan couldn’t, so it must have been Declan’s fault.”

Adam took a step forward, “Ronan…”

“I can’t believe I was such an idiot,” Ronan said, “Even when Niall would do shit like flushing Declan’s meds or locking him in his room or—or insulting him in front of his girlfriend, or ripping his favourite clothes when he was out too late or… It was happening our whole lives. I never saw Declan relax in that house. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him relax, period.”

Adam wanted to pull Ronan into a hug, but there was a tremor which ran through him. It was fragile. If Ronan was touched, he might break apart.

“I’ve been so—so…” Ronan screwed his eyes shut, “I totally ignored it. I didn’t care. It wasn’t happening to me, so I didn’t care.”

“You were just a kid,” Adam protested, “You couldn’t have controlled him.”

“Niall loved me,” Ronan said, “he did what I asked. If I’d asked him—”

“He probably would have just denied anything was happening,” Adam cut through, “or he would have just started abusing you as well. You can’t just ask someone to stop being abusive, abusers don’t work that way. It’s not logical.”

Ronan didn’t look convinced. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his scalp. The short hairs made a soft, bristling noise.

“Look, Ronan,” Adam sat down opposite him, “these things are difficult. They usually take a while to make sense. After I… after I left my parent’s house, it took a while for me to realise that I had _actually_ been abused. I knew on a technical, logical level that my father was not normal, that most parents didn’t actually beat their kids.”

Ronan looked at him through his fingers.

“But it still felt like I’d done something to deserve it,” Adam sighed, “when you’re a kid and all you’ve known is what you had at home. When your dad breaks your arm because you walked in front of the television, your first thought is _well, I shouldn’t have walked in front of the television._ ”

Ronan went a little green. Adam chewed his lip, guilty. He needed to remember not to use such colourful examples when his friends were already feeling depressed.

“What I’m saying is,” Adam continued, “you only realise what’s happened to Declan after it’s over. That’s totally normal. Declan probably felt it was all normal until it ended, too. And he’s been going through regular therapy, hasn’t he, ever since Niall died?”

“Yes,” Ronan said, “But I should have still…”

“Maybe,” Adam sighed, “but there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m sorry, Ronan. There’s not much we can do about things that happened years ago now. To be frank, Declan is dealing with something a lot more pressing right now.”

Ronan’s eyes were wide. He stared at the floor, “I called him a liar.”

“What?” Adam asked.

“He told Matthew he thought he might be sick because of Niall,” Ronan croaked, “and I called him a liar to his face. I told him he was being spiteful and stupid.”

Adam waited for the punchline. Ronan didn’t say anything else.

“God,” Adam muttered.

“I need to talk to him,” Ronan stood up, suddenly, “Visiting hours are over, but—”

The phone rang.

“It’s mine,” Adam said, “pass it here.”

Ronan passed him the buzzing Nokia.

“Hello?” Adam asked.

“ _Adam?”_ Matthew Lynch asked. There was a breathless quality to his voice, “ _Is Ronan there?”_

Adam passed the phone back over to Ronan, “It’s Matthew.”

“Matty,” Ronan said, heart thumping, “I need to—”

“ _You really turned your phone off for two days, Ronan?”_ Matthew’s voice cracked, “ _I, I—I needed to talk to you, but I had to go and ask Parrish’s boss for his number. Do you realise how fucked up that is? I can’t come to Monmouth every time I need to talk to you, Ronan. You can’t do that to me. You can’t just do that_.”

“Oh,” Ronan said, "I..." 

“ _Fuck, Ronan,_ ” Matthew’s voice was slightly more distant. There was a crinkle of fabric on the other end, “ _I need you right now. I know you hate Declan, but I need you, too. I can’t do this on my own_.”

Ronan’s heart tore. He could hear a sniffle on the other end of the line and he knew that Matthew was crying.

“ _You need to come sign some surgery waivers,_ ” Matthew said.

“Why do I need to sign them?” Ronan frowned, “Can’t Declan sign them?”

There was a short, sharp silence. It was like the silence right after he had been punched, right before the pain registered and his hearing returned.

“ _Declan is in a coma_ ,” Matthew snarled down the line, “ _which you would know about if you weren’t such a piece of shit who fucked off the moment things got difficult. You have to be over sixteen to sign them, so it’s either you or the Lynch cousin I rang yesterday who’s on her way over from Egypt. Who honestly might be more of a family member to me right now_.”

Ronan took a step back. Coma. Coma. Things were slipping away from him, even when he tried to ignore them, even when he needed time to process it all so he could understand. Declan was getting worse and worse, pitching forward into a downward spiral.

“ _Hello?”_ Matthew called, “ _Are you still there? I swear to God Ronan, if you’ve hung up on me—”_

“I’m here,” Ronan said, quickly, “I’m here. Can I go tonight? Where can I pick you up?”

“ _Yeah, we can go right now_ ,” Matthew’s voice was still sharp, “ _I’m in my dorm.”_

The phone clicked off. Ronan swapped it with Adam for the phone that he actually owned. Belatedly, he turned it on.

*

Matthew was waiting at the school gates, wrapped in what was actually Declan’s old black coat. His scarf was huge and white and tickled his cheeks with thick synthetic fur. He approached Ronan’s BMW before he even parked and jumped inside, slamming the door.

“Don’t stop,” Matthew ordered, “Keep driving.”

“What are they operating on?” Ronan pressed the gas pedal down. The speedometer ticked slowly upwards.

“It’s his feet,” Matthew muttered, “His ankles have tumours which have stopped the blood flow and they’re going into necrosis. They need to amputate both of them to stop it spreading to his femurs—well, they needed to amputate them yesterday, but I suppose if you were busy that’s alright. If Declan’s survival is too inconvenient for you, don’t fucking worry about it.”

Ronan felt a sharp pain in his chest, and he cringed away from his brother like he had been smacked. Matthew pulled his shoes onto the seat and rubbed his knees. The seatbelt made a noise as he moved, scraping the leather seats.

“I’m sorry,” Ronan said.

“No you aren’t,” Matthew snapped.

The venom in his voice made Ronan’s skin crawl. Ronan lifted his shoulders and made a vow to say nothing. If Matthew didn’t want to talk, they didn’t have to talk. Ronan had to save what was left of their relationship while both of them were still alive. He was running out of family, and fast.

“Ronan…” Matthew tried. His voice was a little softer, but still painful to hear, “Look. You can’t just opt out of everything. Maybe we could have managed before, but me and Declan can’t do without you right now. I need you. I can’t fucking drive. I can’t look after Declan on my own.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Ronan said, because he really wanted to apologize again but had a feeling that would just make Matthew angry, “I feel so awful.”

“Yeah, Ronan, yeah,” Matthew glared at him, “because I really give a shit what you’re feeling right now.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. His chest stung, “You don’t have to believe me, but I’m really sorry. I fucked up. I really fucked up. I want to do better from now on. Please, I don’t want to abandon you again.”

Matthew was silent.

Henrietta slipped past their window in strange, dark shapes. Streetlights splashed light over them in beats. The BMW rumbled, shaking their seat slightly.

“Did you really not know...” Matthew swallowed thickly and continued, “Did you really not know that he was sick, when you punched him those times?”

“I should have,” Ronan said, “but I didn’t think about it. I would have been able to work it out, but I didn’t care about Declan enough. I only found out he was sick the day before his first surgery.”

Matthew picked at the mud on his shoes, dropping the crumbs of pale dirt into the footwell. His expression was still stormy. His light eyebrows drew together, and his mouth was an angry line.

“I want you to know,” Matthew said, finally, “that I am only giving you a second chance because Declan specifically asked me to. He asked me to forgive your mistakes. So, it’s not me you have to thank, it’s him.”

Ronan was nearly crushed by relief, “Okay.”

“You can’t turn off your phone like that,” Matthew said, “You have to drive me to the hospital. You have to help me take care of him.”

“Of course,” Ronan said, “I’ll do all that.”

“And if—” Matthew stopped suddenly, as if something had closed around his throat. He closed his eyes and went very still. It was a minute before he spoke again: “If there’s a funeral I’m not old enough to arrange it. You have to.”

Ronan’s mouth was dry, “Alright.”

Matthew leaned forward, resting his head on the passenger side door. He opened his eyes. Under his blue eyes there were dark bags. His fingernails were over bitten, right to the wick. He looked very young, like that, very breakable.

“Also, could you try…” Matthew’s voice was weak, “I know it’s difficult. But could you dream up a cure?”

Ronan’s jaw tightened.

“I know it’s hard,” Matthew said, “I don’t even understand it. But Niall could delay Declan’s cancers and you’re his son. It’s worth a try. This isn’t a deal breaker it’s just—I just want you to try, please. I don’t want Declan to die.”

“Alright,” Ronan lowered his head, “I’ll try. I’ll try as hard as I can.”

“Thank you,” Matthew muttered.


	7. Carry me Home

Declan Lynch was alive, suddenly.

Both of his eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright. Nothing in his body hurt, even slightly. Energy thrummed through him, hot and vivid. He bounced to his feet.

Golden wheat stretched all around him in every direction. On the north horizon, trees were picked out against the sky in deep lush green. A low teal lake stretched out to the south, so clean and crystal clear he could see all the way to the rocky bottom. The air was pleasantly warm and smelled of earth and life.

He padded down the small incline. He was barefoot, but there were no rocks or insects, only soft earth the texture of a firm mattress. Even the stems of the golden wheat were soft as animal fur on the soles of his feet.

Declan Lynch jumped down the last part of the hill and landed running.

Life burned through him. He felt so dazzlingly fresh and new, his heart thundered. He felt like a racehorse, or a greyhound, some beast of speed which ran so beautifully it glided over the earth. His body never failed or faltered. He could run forever.

Turquoise water splashed around his ankles when he jumped into the lake. It was a cool embrace, refreshingly sharp. He laughed and kicked the soft riverbank. No mud clung to his cuffs, no sand between his toes. Only the brightness of the clear water, the cleanness of it all.

Diving beneath the surface, Declan felt the chill streamed over his body and tug at his hair. Water pulled at his arms and soaked through his clothes. Relief flowed through him. Every kick of his legs was met with water resistance, like he was swimming through thick cream.

He kicked up a branch.

Declan picked it up, dislodging a small cloud of mud which was quickly cleared away by the clean water. He broke the surface and peered at it, feet catching the bank as he walked back. It was the shape of a femur bone, and smooth as stone. It was the only stick he saw anywhere.

A dog barked behind him.

Declan turned and smiled at it. It was an Irish Setter, with a coat as perfect and shining as a polished bronze coin. Declan’s favourite dog breed. Its form was ideal, nose pointed like an arrow towards Declan, tail slightly raised. Whoever had trained it had done a perfect job.

Declan threw the stick.

The setter bounced onto its hind legs as the stick flew over its head. It turned on a dime, bolting after it, long fur gleaming in the sun.

After a moment of watching, Declan leaped out of the lake and charged after it. The dog dropped the stick and ran alongside him, their feet pounding the earth. The dog’s silk side brushed Declan’s bare legs. Golden earth flashed underneath them.

Declan was warm and filled with light. He felt so young. He jumped as he ran, and his momentum carried him forward. The setter wagged its short tail.

The Irish setter dived into the treeline and Declan bounded after it. The cool, wet smell of the forest filled his mouth and nose. His body was dry again, and sun warmed, so the cool was refreshing. The dog bounded alongside him, leaping over logs and bursting through foliage. Declan felt like howling so he did, his strong voice carrying through their thundering path. The dog barked and howled with him, tail wagging so much that its rear end shook.

Declan burst into a sunny clearing and stumbled to a stop. Sun dazed him and he blinked, scraping his hair back from his forehead. The Irish settle bounded to a stop and leaned so heavily on him that he slipped slightly on the damp grass. Warmth fell like a blanket over his shoulders.

He panted lightly. His throat was slightly raw. He felt electric. He felt powerful. He watched the woman in the clearing, her beautiful glowing golden hair, her long Gingham-print dress, all of the food laid before her like a feast for a young bride on white cloth.

Aurora Lynch beckoned for him to sit down. So Declan sat, and the Irish setter immediately flopped down in his lap. Declan scratched the dog’s long, floppy ears. In the sun, the animal looked blood red.

Declan leaned across the feast and picked up a cold, roasted turkey leg. In his lap, the dog’s tail wagged so hard it tore the grass from the earth and Declan gave it the turkey leg. The dog nearly kicked him the crotch in excitement. He laughed.

“No comments?” Aurora smiled at him. She looked so fresh and new, as if she was very slightly glowing. Her hair was just like Matthew’s, a long pile of crisp gold curls.

“What’s to say?” Declan smiled at her, “Besides, I don’t want to ruin my good morning.”

“My,” Aurora beamed at him, “I had always pegged you for the curious type. And it’s been so long, sweetheart. I want to talk to you.”

“I’ve missed you,” Declan said, sadly.

Aurora nodded, “I’ve missed you all too. Terribly.”

Declan pulled the cooked bone away from the hungry dog. Cooked bird bones were bad for animals to eat, he remembered, so instead he let the dog lap at his fingers with a broad, rough tongue. The dog put a hard foot on the family jewels and Declan grunted, pushing it off. The dog didn’t seem to mind, tail whumping the air enough to stir up a breeze.

“Well, the way I see it,” Declan said, “is that you’re either a figment of my imagination, or I’m…” Declan closed his mouth.

“Well?” Aurora prompted, when he didn’t continue.

Declan flushed, “Or you’re not.”

Aurora took a sip of her tea. It was a fragrant blend, which smelled of peaches and lemons. Declan swallowed.

“Do you want some?” Aurora gestured at the glass teapot.

Declan shook his head, “What if it traps me here?”

“Is that what you think this is?” Aurora laughed, “Am I a witch?”

“It would be a fae,” Declan said, “The fae are the ones who trap you in illusions when you eat their food.”

“You have been listening to your brother’s friends too much,” Aurora smiled.

“Now I know you’re a figment of my imagination,” Declan said, scratching the dog’s ears, “Because you never met Gansey.”

Aurora moved slightly, and her lovely golden hair flowed like silk over her shoulders. She tilted her head, her beautiful blue eyes fixed on Declan, “You don’t think I’d watch over my boys?”

*

Ronan cracked the pills between his teeth.

The benefit of having so much insomnia for so long was that Monmouth Manufacturing had a fair stock of sleeping pills. The downside of this was that all of them had been proven not to work for him. Still, he was willing to try.

Part of him wanted to try whatever would work. That part was overwhelmed by the utter horror of the idea of leaving not one, but two brothers for Matthew to bury. So he just pulled out a melatonin capsule and swallowed it.

His fists hit the punching bag in an irregular patter. Frantic energy blazed through him. He wanted to jump around, but he needed to work properly so that his body would be tired enough to sleep, but not too tired to skip Dreaming. He had never tried to deliberately Dream before. He had no idea if it would work.

Ronan was in entirely the wrong mindset to sleep, far too feverish and panicked, but somehow, he would do it. He slammed his fists into the punching bag and watched it swing slowly back and forth, the chain creaking above his head.

Later, he would sleep. Later, he would dream. He would crawl on his belly in the dreamscape and beg and beg and beg for his brother’s life. He would crawl for a hundred miles, through the wilderness, atoning.

*

“You weren’t surprised to see me,” Aurora peeled back the cream-coloured wrapping on a small slice of Victoria sponge with strawberry jam filling. Icing sugar dusted her long fingers as she lifted it.

“Well, at the moment I have both my eyes,” Declan explained. The dog rolled over onto its back on his legs and he scratched the narrow rib cage while its tail thumped, “and my hand’s alright. And I think they took both my feet while I was asleep, and probably some of my ribs.”

“Dear me,” Aurora took a bite of her cake and her eyes closed. There was a long pause as she chewed and swallowed; Aurora would sooner die than speak with a mouth full. Then again, here she was. She opened her eyes again, “Life has not been kind to my baby, has it?”

Declan gave a non-committal gesture. The dog pressed a wet nose into his elbow.

“I am sorry for what happened to you under my care,” Aurora said, her musical voice reading a lower key, “I wish it could have been different.”

“I know,” Declan shook his head, “Dad made you that way, didn’t he?”

“Alas,” Aurora sighed liltingly, “Yes, I could not disobey him. That was the rule. I could no more save you from him than I could pull the moon down for you, as much as I wanted to. But that was my only rule. You must know that I loved you whole heartedly, and without instruction.”

Declan smiled at her, “I know that too. I always knew you loved me.”

Aurora beamed at him.

Declan realised he had forgotten to keep petting the dog when he felt a wet tongue swipe at the underside of his chin, leaving a stripe of slobber. He used both hands to scratch at the dog’s satiny cheeks and the dog opened its mouth in a wide, sloppy grin, pink tongue flopping out.

“I wish I could have stayed with you,” Aurora said, “I wish I could have protected you three from the world, after Niall had died. What I wouldn’t give to shield you three from all that…”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Declan said, “There are so many people I love still alive, and there are is so much I enjoy doing. I think, despite everything, I really loved being alive.”

*

The first thing Ronan heard when he woke up was glass clinking together. He pushed himself into sitting position, eyes still gritty and head groggy with sleep. Dozens of tiny vials bounced across each other when he disturbed them.

It looked like his entire room had grown scales. Gleaming glass bottles covered every surface. Ronan blinked blearily, dazzled by the sheer number of reflective surfaces. Then he realised what he was looking at and leaped out of bed.

“Matthew!” He shouted, kicking his door open, “Matthew, I did it!”

Matthew burst into the room, accidentally kicking a tide of bottles which clinked together. He immediately dived forward and filled his coat pockets with the little vials. They were a pale yellow as opposed to the translucent doses Niall had produced. Ronan filled his jeans pockets with them.

The two Lynch brothers had so many glass bottles in their pockets they chimed like bells when they sprinted across Monmouth Manufacturing and pounded down the steps.

“Don’t forget the syringe,” Ronan threw open the door of the BMW.

Matthew clambered into the passenger seat, “I already had it in my pocket.”

Ronan drove off before either of them had buckled in. It was early morning, but it would be past 8 AM, when visiting hours began, by the time they reached the hospital. Fear and excitement made Ronan giddy and strange. He took corners too fast and forced himself to slow down.

When they parked in the hospital, they bounded out of the car without paying the meter, locking the vehicle or even closing the car doors. The two brothers just sprinted across the parking lot like wild dogs.

“You go first!” Ronan yelled at Matthew, “The nurse likes you!”

Matthew beamed and sped up.

When they broke through the hospital doors, they reined themselves in to a speedy walk, their legs as stiff as soldier toys. They clinked gently.

“Good morning,” Matthew greeted the wary nurse, “Ronan promises to behave. Is Declan alright?”

“He’s stable,” The nurse said, still regarding Ronan, who was bouncing on the spot, “The operation was a success and went off without a hitch. But you can’t bother him for more than an hour.”

“We’ll be quick,” Ronan promised, and gave the nurse what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but from the look on the nurse’s face was actually quite frightening. The nurse stepped aside, and the boys bounced into the ward and made a beeline for Declan Lynch’s bed.

Declan looked like a body in the morgue. His missing feet were noticeable as flat ends to the bumps of his legs. It was a sobering sight, all that waxy grey skin, his single eye lined and red and closed. His body was utterly still.

Ronan felt a sharp twinge of fear and all the giddiness drained out of him.

“Okay,” Matthew watched the nurse until she walked out of sigh, “If I stand here, the camera can’t see me.”

Ronan watched him as Matthew dabbed antiseptic onto the elbow hinge of Declan’s long arm. He smacked the skin lightly until a vein rose. He clicked a needle onto the end of a small syringe and pulled out a dose from one of his many vials.

“Wait,” Ronan said, “Wait, what if I dreamed it wrong? Or what if it works in the dream but it doesn’t work in real life?”

Matthew looked at him, big blue eyes firm. The syringe was held between his finger and thumb, his other hand held Declan’s still arm. He waited for Ronan to continue, and when he didn’t, he asked, “Do you think it’ll hurt him?”

Ronan tried to speak, but only air came out. He bit his lip, “I don’t know, Matty. I tried. But I don’t know. I really don’t want to hurt him.”

Matthew glanced around at the heart rate monitor behind him. He didn’t know what the numbers underneath the tracing monitor meant. There were tumours under his fingers, like several small marbles under the skin. Matthew watched Declan’s still face.

“Fuck it,” Matthew said, and plunged the syringe needle into Declan’s elbow and emptied it.

“Matt!” Ronan hissed through his teeth, making a motion like he was about to jump over Declan’s limp body. Matthew drew the empty needle out and dropped it into the sharps bin.

Both brothers watched Declan closely. They watched for even a flicker of movement. Matthew glanced around at the monitor behind them which traced a steady rhythm. A moment passed. Another. No motion, no change.

Matthew knelt at the bedside, his face in his hands. All tension left him. Ronan pulled the visitor’s chair up and sat down, heavily. Declan didn’t move. Ronan wanted shake him, wanted to smack his elder brother or pull him close. He wanted to cry. Declan’s skin was as cool as ever, his muscles still and his expression placid. Ronan pressed his face into Declan’s chest, comforted a little by its steady rise and fall.

*

“ _Love,”_ Aurora corrected, raising a long, elegant hand.

“What?”

“Present tense,” Aurora said, “You _love_ being alive. For there is work yet to be done, my son.”

*

Declan’s eye opened. He widened his eye and screwed it shut, “Oh.”

“Declan,” Ronan jumped out of his seat like he’d been electrocuted. Matthew looked at Declan like he was a gargoyle come to life, pushing sheets out of the way.

“Hello,” Declan croaked. His voice was so rough and weak it was scarcely above a whisper. He touched what remained of his face. He glanced down at his legs and looked green, “Wow, that’s rough. At least I... have both hands, still.”

“Oh my god,” Matthew stood up, running a hand through his curls, “You’re actually alive.”

“Did I die?” Declan said, his speech slurred. He tried to frown but found he couldn’t. He touched his face. One eyebrow. The other half of his face was missing or heavily anesthetised.

Matthew shifted nervously, “Kind of?”

Ronan engulfed him. He wrapped his arms around his middle and squeezed him as tightly as he could. His eyes were wet, and he felt such a pure, consuming joy at how warm Declan was, how much his brother shifted around when Ronan hugged him.

“Hello,” Declan patted Ronan’s head.

“I’m so sorry,” Ronan croaked into Declan’s chest. He was shaking slightly, his eyes streaming with tears, “Declan, I’m so—I’m so, so sorry for everything. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Declan smiled tiredly and stroked the back of Ronan’s scalp. It was bristly and soft, like the short hair of a Jack Russel.

“I already forgave you,” Declan rasped, a small smile on his face, “Did you forget?”

Matthew pushed Declan gently to one side so he could perch on the bed and wrap both arms around Declan’s shoulders, mindful of the damaged side of his face. Matthew pressed his nose into Declan’s long neck.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Matthew sobbed, “I really thought I was just going to have _Ronan_ to look after me for all eternity.”

Declan laughed hoarsely and lifted a hand to touch his youngest brother. The muscles were so weak his arm shook and Matthew held his hand and pressed it onto his arm, smiling so widely it looked like his cheeks might split. His face was hot and pink and wet with tears, a warm star next to Declan’s jaw.

“I had the strangest dream…” Declan closed his remaining eye. He was silent for a long moment before, “I think… I think I want a dog.”

“You can get a dog,” Ronan promised, “Any kind of dog.”

“You should get a dog too, Ronan,” Matthew said, “We can all get a dog and they can all be friends.”

“Brothers,” Ronan corrected, proudly, “Brothers and friends.”

Declan wheezed a laugh. He batted Ronan’s face away.

“We can get a fucking fleet of dogs!” Ronan straightened up, looking the happiest Declan had seen him in years, “Sixteen-hundred of your fucking fugly-ass Irish settlers or whatever, sixteen-hundred of them pouring through every room in Aglionby like a plague of locusts!”

Declan choked a little, “Don’t make me laugh, Ro. I’m not well.”

“Excuse me, Mr Lynch!” The nurse parted the curtains around Declan’s bed, “but that kind of language—”

The nurse stared at Declan Lynch. All colour drained out of her face.

“Hey,” Declan said, his flirty smile a little lopsided due to the heavy anaesthetic, “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of… making your acquaintance. I’m Declan Lynch.”

The nurse dropped her clipboard.


	8. Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title of this chapter [from this poem :)](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out)

Ronan pulled the hospital blinds open.

Searing, white light shot through the dark room and Declan coughed in surprise, slapping a hand over his eye. He groaned, “I’ve only the one eye, Ronan. Be gentle with it.”

Ronan ignored him, reaching up to unlatch the window. The safety lock didn’t allow it to open more than two inches, but the fresh air snaked in anyway, cold and sharp. He pulled the blinds open the rest of the way. Blue filled every spare inch of the square windows, apart from a little border of treetops at the bottom of the window. Henrietta was built flat and low—barely anything in town was bigger than two stories.

Declan let light through his fingers, still squinting.

“You’re going back tomorrow,” Ronan said, “Matthew’s moved your things into a ground-floor dorm. It used to be the teacher’s, but they relocated them. It’s a lot bigger.”

Declan hummed and leaned back into his pillows.

“Where’s your car?” Ronan asked, “I can bring it round.”

“It’s in storage,” Declan said, laying on hand on top of the other over his bottom ribs, “You know—I left it to Adam, in my will?”

Ronan stared at him, “You updated your will?”

Declan didn’t answer that. A deep sigh pulled out of him, and he sunk deeper into the mattress, “Come sit by me, Ronan. I don’t like looking into the sunlight.”

Guilty, Ronan lowered the blinds a little, until the light stopped shining directly on Declan’s face. Declan relaxed a little. His younger brother sat next to him, drawing close.

“There’s… some stuff I didn’t tell you,” Declan said, “about our family.”

Ronan swallowed thickly, “About dad?”

“Well, yes,” Declan said, “but it’s Matthew I wanted to talk to you about.”

Ronan frowned, “Matthew? What’s Matthew done?”

“He’s not Niall’s biological son,” Declan said. His eye drifted shut. “He’s a dream creature.”

Ronan took a moment to absorb that. It was easier than it might otherwise have been—after Aurora, it was easier to see dream creatures as living and truly animated. It sat oddly in his mind, “But he didn’t fade away, after dad’s death. Did Niall figure out something for him?”

“He’s not Dad’s. He’s yours,” Declan said, and his voice was low and rasping, “I was there. It was winter solstice’s night, and you always dreamed like you were possessed. Every night, I had to wake you up before you brought out something, so it wouldn’t hurt you. That night I didn’t, and what you brought out was Matthew.”

Ronan sat back. Matthew was his dream creature, as much as Chainsaw was. He rubbed his face. “Oh… wow.”

Declan didn’t respond. He adjusted his covers. Across his left wrist, the surgical scar was a thick white band as thick as a cable, marred by regular-spaced suture marks. The hand had grown stronger, but still shivered every time he tried to move something heavy.

“Will you tell me the rest of the secrets?” Ronan murmured.

Declan opened his eye a slit, “When I’m better, maybe.”

Ronan liked that. It was two promises rolled into one: _I might tell you how it really was_ , and, _I am getting better_. He didn’t quite smile, but his expression eased and he un-balled his fists.

“I’m looking forward to getting out of here,” Declan’s eye closed again, “I’m quite an expensive patient, with all these sudden emergency surgeries. Three million isn’t as large as it sounds when you’re as sick as I am.”

“You can use all of it,” Ronan said, “I don’t care.”

“I know you don’t,” Declan rasped, “That’s why I have to care about it.”

Ronan watched his older brother, as his body relaxed. Outside, birds called to one another in squalling shrieks. Cars navigated the maze-like parking lot down below them, honking at the absent-minded pedestrians. Clouds shifted far above them, pulling apart like white cotton candy.

Through the thin hospital walls, Ronan heard the sharp cry of laughter from the next room. Declan, partly because he was always half-sedated, partly because he was always so tired, slept lifelessly. His body sunk like dead weight into the mattress, his skin pale and clammy, his single eye unmoving under its eyelid.

A pinch of panic sparked in Ronan’s heart and he leaned forward, shaking Declan’s shoulder.

“For fucks sake!” Declan croaked, eye snapping open, every remaining facial muscle used to frown, “Quit doing that all the time! I’m not about to drop dead.”

Ronan smiled slyly at him, “Just checkin’.”

*

The new dorm was utterly spotless. Declan felt guilty for the long streaks of dirt his two narrow wheelchair wheels were leaving on the polished wood flooring. Even with the relocation, the ramps were still fairly steep for him, and his arms ached.

“Declan!” Matthew bounced into view, utterly elated, like he hadn’t seen Declan only ten minutes ago when Ronan had dropped him off, “The pie will be another thirty minutes. I hope you’re really hungry, I went a bit overboard.”

Declan wasn’t hungry at all, but he smiled anyway, “Ravenous.”

*

Declan blinked his eye open, and for a moment wasn’t sure what woke him. The room was dark and warm, like the movie theatre on a summer’s day. With effort, he pushed himself up with his elbows—only to freeze.

Blue eyes watched him in the darkness, hawk-like. Matthew sat in the bed opposite him, leaning like a resting lion on his elbows.

“What are you doing?” Declan asked, unnerved.

Matthew smiled at him, the picture of innocence.

Declan gave him a flat look, “Stop being so creepy and go to sleep.”

“Aww,” Matthew rested his chin on his hands, “but I like looking at you?”

Declan threw a pillow at him. The throw was weak, and the pillow flopped to the floor in the valley between their beds, but Matthew snagged it up and rested his chin on it. Blue eyes stayed fixed on him. Declan sighed and rolled over.

*

Adam breathed through his thick scarf and watched bronze-coloured puppies bobble and tussle with each other. He wondered what it would be like to have that much energy. The puppies overflowed with it, even when they weren’t jumping around, they shook their little tails, yapping and bouncing on the spot. Their mother slept underneath the carnage. Often, her glossy sides were used as launching points.

The dog breeder leaned on the dark railing, “I think this litter would all be good as a companion animal. They may seem energetic now, but they’ll calm down a little as they grow. Though Setters are usually not picked for more sedentary lifestyles—are you sure you wouldn’t want a Basset Hound? They may be easier to train.”

“I think he’s got his heart set on an Irish setter,” Adam buttoned another tassel on his coat. He wished he’d made Ronan bring a coat with him, he could see goose-bumps all over his boyfriend’s pale arms. Ronan was occupied on the other side of the small paddock, poking his fingers into animal cages and grinning meanly when they tried to bite him.

“Well, if he gets it professionally trained there should be no issue,” the breeder said. She wore a thick, scratchy looking woollen coat, “Have you decided which animal you want?”

Adam shrugged, “It’s not really my decision.”

“Ah,” the breeder straightened up to address Ronan, “Sir—?”

“I’ve decided,” Ronan announced, looking up from the animal cages.

Adam padded towards him, followed by the breeder.

“This one,” Ronan jabbed a thumb towards one of the dogs in the smaller cages.

Adam shot him an exasperated look, but Ronan skilfully avoided meeting his eye.

“Are you sure?” the breeder frowned, “These animals aren’t actually for sale.”

“I don’t think your brother will find it as funny as you do,” Adam muttered to Ronan, who was still avoiding his gaze.

“I’ll pay extra,” Ronan promised.

*

“Oh, you brought Adam,” Matthew beamed at the two of them.

“Is that alright?” Adam asked, unwinding the scarf from his neck as he stepped into the dorm room. Ronan pushed past the two of them regardless, the pink dog carrier under one arm.

“It’s fine,” Matthew closed the door after them, “I made too much again.”

“Can we take leftovers?” Adam asked, brightly, “I really liked the tomato Ragu that—”

“Stop chatting like old ladies and come into the living room,” Ronan called behind him.

Adam raised his eyebrows but followed the Lynch brothers into the living room. It was a dark room decked out in luscious dark blues and blacks. A fire crackled in the hearth, making the room stiflingly warm. Declan looked half-asleep on the couch, his eye half-lidded behind his glinting glasses.

“Heyy, _Dec_ -lan,” Ronan crooned, kneeling at the side of the couch. He set the dog carrier down next to him.

Declan rubbed his face and pushed his glasses onto his forehead, “You always sound so suspicious when you say my name like that.”

“More suspicious than he sounds the rest of the time?” Adam asked, genuinely curious. Declan grinned at him, tiredly.

Ronan ignored both of them and pulled the crate around, so the mesh-entrance faced Declan. The sound of claws scraping on the plastic reached Declan’s ears. He perked up. Ronan unlatched all but the last fastening.

“It’s not a cat, is it?” Declan asked, leaning forward.

“Better,” Ronan patted the roof of the crate, “Her name is Morrigan.”

The last latch was released, and a puppy bounded out, fur shining like fresh polished copper. For a moment, she was so fast and bouncing, that Declan couldn’t quite make her out in the gloom. Then he frowned, drawing himself up. He cast Ronan a disappointed look.

“Are you serious, Ronan?” Declan croaked.

“Why?” Ronan asked, utterly innocent, “What’s wrong with her?” He set the empty carrier on the couch.

Morrigan bounced around eagerly, her tail wagging as fast as the beat of insect wings. She had a bright, charming black eye that was slightly downturned at the corner, as if she was contemplatively melancholy. She sniffed the corners of the sofa fervently.

“The animal’s a cripple, Ronan,” Declan said, flatly.

“Declan!” Matthew gasped and dropped to his knees, slapping his hands around Morrigan’s precious little ears. Morrigan twisted her head to lick his fingers. “Language!”

“It’s a dog,” Declan glared at him, “it’s not going to be offended.”

“I don’t see the issue with having a handy-capable dog,” Ronan said, “I think you should be more open minded. I’m disappointed in you.”

“I actually hate you,” Declan gritted out.

Morrigan ducked out from under Matthew’s hands and ran her silky side against Declan’s stumps where they hung over the side of the bed. She was missing her right back leg, and on her small, cute little face, her left eye was missing in such a way that it made her look like she was permanently winking. She put her front paws on the corner of the bed, surprisingly stable on only one back leg. The little dog looked up at Declan with an expression of pure, animal adoration.

Declan’s heart twanged, just a little. Sparing Ronan a venomous glare, he caught Morrigan by the collar and pulled her into his lap. The dog put her paws on Declan’s collar bone and licked his ears.

“And they say his heart grew three sizes that day…” Ronan smirked.

“I’m going to throw something at you,” Declan pulled Morrigan’s nose away from his mouth to avoid a slobbery kiss.

“Sure, Dec,” Ronan rocked back on his heels, “you look really intimidating with that cute puppy licking your face.”

“I liked it better when we all hated each other,” Declan said, darkly. Matthew laughed.

*

Morrigan needed walking, so Matthew joined track again and took her with him. When she got tired, Matthew put her in a little baby carrier he’d bought from amazon, and her silky little head rested on his shoulder as he ran.

“Ronan shouldn’t have told the school she’s a therapy dog,” Declan said, when he saw Matthew come into the living room, “It’s dishonest. Besides, who would believe it? She’s a puppy, she’s not even house-trained yet.”

Matthew made a non-committal hum. He pulled the Velcro straps and loosened it enough to scoop Morrigan out from where she rested, sleepy and warm, against his chest. He laid the little red-brown puppy on Declan’s lap. Declan ran his fingers over the curve of her tiny skull. She sighed in her sleep, happy.

*

“Come on,” Ronan wrapped his arms around Declan, under his armpits, “Be brave. I won’t drop you.”

“Thanks,” Declan said, flatly, “It didn’t actually occur to me that you might until you said that.”

Still, Declan shifted his hands forward. His legs shook. His eye screwed shut with effort, but he managed, finally, shakily, to push himself onto his prosthetics. They were small and black and hard against his thick scar tissue. Ronan had dreamed them up to be impossibly stable, and they resembled nothing so much as the strong back paws of a black wolf. Declan’s full weight hit them in one shuddering moment, and they didn’t so much as wobble.

“Easy, easy,” Ronan said, “Just take it real—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Declan hissed through his teeth. His back spasmed with pain.

With Ronan’s strong arms around him, Declan’s legs still shook. They were doing a strange waltz, Declan grabbing fistfuls of Ronan’s shirt as his knees quaked. Lurching forward, Declan took two steps in quick succession, Ronan slipping backwards to accommodate him.

In that moment, pain vicious and spiteful through Declan’s spine, he hated Ronan with startling intensity. Ronan moved so easy, as if he were made of liquid, pouring himself into each step. He was like a shark slipping through a dark ocean. Even with Declan’s full weight on him, he didn’t even falter.

“Just a few more steps,” Ronan muttered in Declan’s scalp. If Declan could get enough air into his closing throat, he would have told Ronan to _fuck off._

Somehow, Declan fell forward enough to complete another step. But now his legs were too far apart to pull his back leg with him. Dark mineral squeaked on the hard floors where he tried to wiggle his prosthetic forward. His shoulder shook. Pain ripped through his spine

and

suddenly Declan was on the floor. He blinked blearily up at Ronan, who was crouching above him, supporting Declan’s upper body with a hand around Declan’s biceps to stop his head from hitting the floor. Weakness dragged at Declan’s mind. His legs were spread-eagled out below him, his black prosthetics pointing in opposite directions.

“You passed out,” Ronan said, tonelessly.

Declan’s arms were really starting to hurt where Ronan held him tightly, “Gathered that.”

“Fuck,” Ronan gritted his teeth, “You can’t even walk.”

Irritation snapped like boiling oil in Declan’s chest, “Put me down.”

Slowly, Ronan lowered Declan to the floor. His head made light contact with the hard floor and he relaxed. Chill spread through his shoulders. Declan relaxed, just a little. A wave of fatigue crashed over him.

“I pushed you too hard,” Ronan said, leaving the apology off. He rubbed his knuckles.

Declan reached out a hand and beckoned to Morrigan, who was sitting obediently on her paw-patterned matt. She bounded towards him and began to lick every part of him she could reach. As he was lying on the floor, this ended up being a lot of territory. When she planted her small paws onto his cheek to lick his nose, Declan shook her off.

“Declan—” Ronan paused. He worked his jaw, “I still can’t believe that Dad would…”

“I don’t care,” Declan scowled at him, “I’m not fucking defending myself to you. You don’t have to believe—”

“That’s not what I meant!” Ronan snapped. He shifted away slightly, as if he thought Declan might smack him. Declan definitely felt like smacking him.

Morrigan had been startled by the raised voice and her tail had stopped wagging, hanging still like a paused metronome. Declan put his fingers in front of her nose and, delighted, Morrigan began to lick them, her tail starting to wag again.

“I just meant that…” Ronan said, “I can’t—I don’t see why he wouldn’t fix you. I mean, you’re… why wouldn’t he…”

“Oof!” Declan said, as Morrigan bounced onto his fragile stomach. She didn’t see the problem, wagging her tail steadily. She pushed her nose into Declan’s neck. Declan scratched her little soft chin.

Ronan sat down properly. The floors squeaked against his red All-Stars. He un-did the straps around Declan’s black prosthetics and slipped them off, leaving his bruises stumps on the cool wooden floor.

Finally, Declan said, “I don’t think it’s that simple, actually.”

“How do you figure?” Ronan asked.

“Well, is what you gave me like those,” Declan gestured at the prosthetics, “or is it more like Chainsaw? Did it just reverse my tumours, or is it actively working against them, preventing new ones from forming? Is it dead or is it alive?”

Ronan stared down at him, his eyes wide and dark. He looked a little frightened, “I don’t know.”

“Me either,” Declan said. Morrigan took him speaking as an opening to give him a slobbery kiss on the mouth. Declan spluttered and spat out fur, while Morrigan licked the wrist which was pushing her away.

“Shit…” Ronan rubbed his eyes, “So if I die, you _and_ Matthew will both be…”

“Yeah, well,” Declan sat up and Morrigan slid into his lap, “now you know how I feel.”

*

Naomi looked up from her knuckles when the dinner arrived. She was acting surprisingly shy, her smiles always half-hidden behind her blunt fingers whenever Declan said something that amused her. She was dressed apologetically, in an old-fashioned smock-style dress which reached past her knees and wrists, patterned with small sunflowers.

“We shouldn’t really be doing this,” She said, for what must have been the tenth time, as a steaming plate of glistening steaks were placed before her by the smartly dressed waited.

A creamy risotto was placed in front of Declan and he tilted his head, repeating what he always reminded her, “You could have said no.”

Naomi considered that. Like all the previous times she’d considered it, she didn’t seem to reach a conclusion, only mentally pushed it away. “How is physical therapy going?”

“You should know,” Declan shrugged one shoulder. The waiters glided away. Warm light fell on them from the low lamps which hung over their booth.

“Pretend that I don’t,” Naomi smiled at him. She had a small, rosebud mouth, glossed the colour of a cherry-flavoured lollypop.

“Good,” Declan said, “I have a long way to go, and it’s rough going, but I’ve regained a lot of weight and my stamina is returning. Now that I’ve finished healing fully, I can start working on rebuilding my muscle strength. I’ve already begun small amounts of weight training.”

“That sounds promising,” Naomi’s knife squeaked as she cut into her meat, “any signs of relapse?”

Declan smiled. Naomi was very good at sounding deeply interested in learning things she already knew. She would have made a good politician.

“None,” Declan said, “I’m getting regular testing, but there’s not a whiff of relapse.”

“Schoolwork going well?” Naomi asked.

Declan saved himself from having to answer right away, by putting a forkful of risotto into his mouth. He chewed delicately and swallowed before answering, “As can be expected. I’ll need to stay in Henrietta another year to repeat the work I missed, but it’s not like I don’t have a good excuse for it all.”

Naomi smiled, “It’ll make a good entrance essay, if you have to write one.”

“You’re not wrong,” Declan took a sip of his wine, “I can only hope they'd accept me.”

Naomi’s eyes fixed on something behind Declan, and her smile became very fixed and false. Declan blinked at her. The mood was very tense, suddenly. Declan couldn’t turn around well in his wheelchair, but he tried to peer around the back of the high booth seating.

“Is that—” A familiar, overly loud voice called from behind Declan.

Declan quickly turned back around and pressed both hands over his face.

Matthew Lynch bounded to their table. He was dressed completely wrong for the establishment, in a ratty shirt and beaten up sneakers. He pressed both hands to the table, leaning over Declan. He fixed Naomi with a wild, excited look.

“It is!” Matthew barked, happily, “Wow, you look way cuter out of your uniform.”

Naomi was bright pink. Her earrings glinted as she glanced between Declan and Matthew.

“Matthew,” Declan said, removing his hands from his face, “is there a reason—”

“Mr. Lynch, it’s not…” Naomi interrupted, waving her hands. She seemed to run out of words, deeply embarrassed.

“Matthew!” Ronan called from across the restaurant. He was cutting through the crowd like a knife, towering over the old ladies and stooped waiters who were standing in his way.

Naomi looked vaguely ill when she saw Ronan. She slipped out from the booth, snapping her purse shut with trembling hands.

“Naomi,” Declan’s voice lost its venom, “Please excuse my brothers.”

“No,” Naomi shook her head, “My fault. This was a bad idea, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry!” Matthew called after her, but the woman didn’t look back, the thin fabric of her sunflower dress rippling as she left the restaurant.

Ronan materialised above Declan’s shoulder, “Damn, was that your nurse, Dec? The one from your ward?”

Declan glared at him.

Ronan slid into the seat opposite him, which Naomi had just vacated, and rested his feet on the footwell on Declan’s wheelchair. He looked down at the stake.

“I can’t believe it,” Matthew sat next to Declan, “I can’t believe you are really picking up nurses when you’re sick.”

“Shut up,” Declan grumbled.

“Seriously!” Matthew exclaimed, a hand over his heart, “Practically on your deathbed! Please don’t use your powers for evil.”

There was a squeak of a knife on enamel.

“Oh my— _Ronan!_ ” Declan snapped, and when he said _Ronan_ it sounded like _you better not be doing what I think you’re doing_ , “Are you serious?!”

“What?” Ronan asked, a chunk of the steak halfway to his mouth.

*

A knocking roused him from a doze and Declan rubbed his eyes. He stretched and cracked his knuckles. Sleeping in his chair always left his back sore and slightly twisted, but he didn’t yet have the strength to do much about it.

“Huh,” Adam said, when Declan opened the dormitory door in his wheelchair, “Now I’m thinking—do you ever run over Morrigan in that thing?”

“Well… she’s very forgiving,” Declan said, measuredly.

Adam laughed. The star of the conversation bounced towards him and collided with his legs at high speed. Adam lifted the wriggling puppy into his arms, “How cruel you are, Declan.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Declan said, stiffly. He leaned forward to look past Adam, “Where’s Ronan?”

“Not here,” Adam took the car keys out from his coat pocket, “He sent me to take you to therapy. I’ve still got the BMW, though. It’s the only one of our cars that’s got a back big enough for your wheels. Do you need me to push you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Declan wheeled himself out of the front door and locked it behind him. Morrigan wriggled in Adam’s arms enough that he set her down and she bounced around his wheels. Apparently, she had not been run over enough to know how to avoid the tread of the wheels, and Declan pushed her away as best he could.

Adam had laid out six or seven mats which covered the gravel path to the back of the BMW which he had parked neatly at the end of the last one, the boot already open. The back seats were missing. The stupid lowrider modifications Ronan had bought last season to piss Declan off actually had a practical use, as Adam lifted Declan out of his chair and set him onto the floor of the boot.

“Sorry this is a little undignified,” Adam said, strapping the wheelchair onto the floor. He picked Declan back up and carried him around to the front of the car.

“It’s alright,” Declan said, and allowed himself to be manhandled. Adam was surprisingly strong, and Declan supposed all that mechanic work must have given him a bit of muscle, “Is Ronan not coming, then?”

“Oh, he is,” Adam set him down in the passenger seat, “He’s actually just re-sitting his English exam right now. I’ll pick him up later.”

Declan stared at him. For a moment, he was completely speechless. Adam picked back up the mats and slotted them into the back of the Beemer before closing the boot. He scooped up Morrigan and dropped her into Declan’s lap.

“I didn’t know about an English exam,” Declan frowned at him.

Adam put a finger to his lips, “That’s ’cause he doesn’t want you to know. Can you keep a secret with me?”

“Ah,” Declan said, “What’s one more?”

“Exactly,” Adam said, and shut the car door.

*

The party was, ultimately, too much for him.

It was fun, and lively, and energetic, and a year earlier, Declan might have thrived in that kind of environment. He still enjoyed it. Ronan’s friends were refreshingly un-Ronan-like that he found he actually rather liked them. Blue had the forethought to bring him an arrangement of brightly coloured eyepatches which she had embroidered with various patterns. None of which he would ever wear, but the gesture was still very touching.

The food was good. The conversation was dynamic, and he found he never needed to carry it or even think of topics. Ronan was a different animal when he was with them. Not the surly, angry creature Declan had been trying fruitlessly to tame for months, or even the cautious rough stray he’d become in the weeks following Declan’s recovery. Ronan around his friends was… almost happy. There was such a spark of amusement in his eyes when Richard Gansey flubbed up a punchline to a joke, or when Adam and Noah had an arm-wrestling contest that went awry when Noah’s arm became incorporeal. Seeing it soothed a part of Declan he didn’t even know existed, it put a balm on a little raw part in him.

Matthew did card tricks, which he had a devastating talent for. His only flaw was that he often got carried away, swinging his arms so widely the cards hidden in his long sleeves were visible for a moment. Occasionally he did tricks which required him to toss huge amounts of cards around Monmouth Manufacturing, tricks he had not counted on how difficult it would be to tidy up from.

Eventually, Declan wheeled himself a little further from the main crowd and leaned his head against his in-built headrest. Gansey had put the heating on as the day had dwindled into afternoon, and the warmth made Declan’s thoughts slow and contented. He closed his eyes.

Noah took several loaves of bread out of the oven. They were browned to perfection, the egg whites he’d applied gave them a gleam. Delicious, fresh-bread aroma filled the room. Blue was showing Adam something on a games console she’d stolen from Gansey, their heads were bent together conspiratorially.

“Hey, Declan,” Matthew rounded on his eldest brother, “pick a card!”

Declan didn’t move, his eye firmly shut. Morrigan pushed past Matthew’s legs and launched herself into her master’s lap, curling up like a cat on top of his hands. Declan didn’t stir. Ronan broke off conversation with Gansey and watched.

Matthew put a hand under Declan’s nose, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel breath ghost over his fingers. He relaxed.

“Sleeping,” Matthew announced, quietly.

Ronan gave him a thumbs-up and returned to Gansey’s conversation.

.

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_end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thank you to everyone who commented!! I really enjoyed writing this fic, and I am over the moon that people liked reading it :,) thank you so much 


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